A Most Singular Case, Indeed
by Traveler Of Many Lands
Summary: It's another case for the great Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, as they are called to investigate sinister acts of vandalism around the home of one Miss Jennifer Honey and her (obviously adopted) daughter Matilda. With the consulting detective tangled in this mysterious case, it's one thing that will cure Sherlock Holmes of his ennui, at least temporarily. I update sparsely.
1. Meeting An Angry Otter and His Hedgehog

**Chapter One**

 **Meeting An Angry Otter (And His Hedgehog)**

Matilda stomped her boot-clad feet on the sidewalk and exhaled, watching the water vapor she had generated drift into the chilly winter air. Next to her, Miss Honey was busily inspecting a text on her phone. "Ah," Miss Honey said, and told Matilda, "Come along, 'Til."

Matilda followed Miss Honey up the doorstep of a modest-looking building with a black door. Miss Honey reached up and briskly tapped the door knocker precisely four times, after which the door flew open and a small woman with salt-and-pepper hair and round spectacles could be seen peering out at her visitors. It took a bit for recognition to set in, but soon, the lady's eyes lit up.

"Jennifer! Oh, Jenny, it's you, it is you, isn't it?" she cried happily.

"Yes, Aunt Martha, it's me," Miss Honey said simply, accepting the gracious hug bestowed upon her by the small woman.

"Oh, Jenny, you look so much like your mother," Aunt Martha sighed, "and you carry yourself exactly like Magnus did when he was your age! Both of you, do come in, I have soup ready."

Matilda gazed up at the imposing black door as she passed and read the brass numbers above the door knocker: 221B.

The door clicked shut behind her, and Matilda, standing near a set of stairs, blinking her eyes rapidly as she tried to adjust to the dark hallway, heard the sounds of a violin drifting from upstairs. Seeing Matilda stuck near the foot of the stairs, Miss Honey called, "Matilda," from the door at the end of the hallway, and Matilda quickly felt her way to 221A.

"Matilda," Miss Honey said, "this is Aunt Martha, my father's only sister. She met my mother a few times before she...died, but she was in the United States when I was born, so my father had no choice but to get Aunt Agatha to help out."

Matilda stuck out her hand to the woman, who shook it cordially. "I'm Matilda, pleased to meet you," she said. "My old parents went to Spain to escape...fraud issues, but Mum persuaded them to leave me in her custody, and I'm really thankful and happy for that."

"So, Matilda," Aunt Martha told her with a twinkle in her eye. "I suppose I'm your great-aunt, then! But please don't call me that," she dropped her voice conspiratorially, "it makes me feel old!" making Matilda grin.

Sitting around a small table sipping French onion soup, Miss Honey and Matilda took turns narrating their story of the last ten months, sensibly omitting the parts about Matilda's telekinetic powers and the issues with the Russian mafia.

"But," Miss Honey said, "we've been experiencing strange occurrences around our house recently. Vandalism would most probably be the best way to describe it."

Matilda nodded in agreement, recalling empty bottles of spray paint scattered in the vegetable garden and spray paint all over Miss Honey's shed. "There's literally no real motive I can gather from them," Matilda added, "but it's easy to see that there is a more sinister purpose behind the vandalism."

PAunt Martha cut in. "That sounds like something they'd love to handle," she replied, pointing up at her ceiling. As if on cue, a series of loud banging noises began issuing from above their heads. "Oh dear," Aunt Martha sighed, "he's at it again. I told him I'd be having visitors, but I guess he wasn't listening. Back in a mo." The small woman hurried out of her door and up the staircase, leaving 221A's door wide open. _Him?_ Miss Honey mouthed to Matilda, confused. Matilda shrugged and took another sip of soup.

Muffled voices came through the ceiling. First Aunt Martha: "What's that- _what are you doing to my wall!_ "

Then a man's: "Exactly, you prat! I'm trying to _read_ here! And whose brolly is that, your brother's?"

Then a loud baritone: "Yes, it's Mycroft's, he left it here from an hour ago. I'm just putting it to good use."

The other man again: "Why are you stabbing and whacking it against the wall then, is that your idea of good use?"

"I'm BORED!" boomed Mr. Baritone, causing both Miss Honey and Matilda to jump.

Back to Aunt Martha: "Well, you don't need to take it out on my wall!"

"MRS. HUDSON, I NEED A CASE!" Shouting again, but this time Matilda and Miss Honey were ready.

Aunt Martha again: "Actually, Sherlock, I might have something. Back in a mo." Hurried footsteps, and then Aunt Martha pattered back into 221A. "As I was saying, they could help. The man whacking his brother's brolly against my wall-don't ask why-and his partner, the sane half, specialize in solving mysteries. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, have you ever heard of them? Well, in any case, maybe they could help you. Would you like me to give you an introduction?"

Miss Honey looked to Matilda and slowly nodded. "It's worth a go," she replied.

Matilda gave Aunt Martha a grin. "And maybe your wall won't suffer too much abuse."

Aunt Martha led them up the stairs, and motioned for them to stop. She poked her head into the flat, where violin music had restarted. "Clients," she called softly.

"Show them in," the baritone voice commanded.

Matilda entered the room first. Standing at the window, playing a violin with his back turned to them, was a tall, thin man with a mop of curly black hair and a suit. Another man in a jumper was already seated. "Have a seat on the couch," the man in the jumper told them with a friendly smile. Matilda turned her head. Sure enough, a couch was pushed against the wall between a spray-painted smiley face riddled with holes and signs of abuse and a poster depicting a skull. The pair took a seat, and the violinist put his instrument away in a case and flung himself into a black chair, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers.

"Er," Aunt Martha began, "this is my brother Magnus's only daughter Jennifer Honey," indicating Miss Honey, "and this is Matilda, her daughter."

Mr. Baritone spoke again. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, and this," he indicated the other man, "is my partner Dr. John Watson." He took one long look at Miss Honey and began.

"Mid- to late twenties, most likely a teacher, been nearsighted since childhood. Lost mother at a very early age, lost father too, but at a much later age. Raised by an incredibly strict family member, may also have been physically abused. Gained freedom from said upbringer and temporarily lived in small quarters: probably a very small room, most likely a shed. Got most of your food from faculty lunches. Spends lots of free time at a library. Grading? No, reading. You must teach a very low form then. Met the child in your class, decided to adopt her. Pity? No, it was most definitely an emergency or at least some drastic circumstance. Now," he said, "to you. Matilda, wasn't it?"

Matilda nodded, amazed at the man's rapid-fire observations.

"All right. Six years old, could be younger if I judge by size. Very interested in observation methods but your first love is reading. Storyteller. Imaginative. Fascinated with books, any kind. Only child in your biological family. Had very neglectful parents until around ten months ago. They didn't die, they just left. Maybe that's the occurrence that spurred your teacher to adopt you right after they left. You must have bonded very easily with her then. But why? Ah, I see. Both of you were lonely, both of you felt like there was virtually no one to go to. In short, you related to each other. And may I say that it was a very good choice on your part to take custody," he added, referring to Miss Honey. "So," he finished, settling back. "What did I get wrong?"

"Brother," Matilda shot at him.

"Pardon?" The man's eyebrows migrated towards each other.

"I had a brother in my biological family," Matilda expounded. "Ten years my senior, the favorite. Probably not that important of a description, though."

"Every small detail is of importance, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to see your biological mother's ego problem. So, tell me what the problem is."

Miss Honey did most of the talking, describing the ongoing attacks of vandalism on the property. The police had waved it off as childhood mischief, but the two both knew that there was something more.

"But the real thing to worry about," Miss Honey said after all of this as she pulled out her phone, "just happened early this very morning." She showed the two men the picture. Matilda could see the image in her head: Miss Honey's garden shed, two knives buried deep into its wall, words scrawled in red: 'I'll be back and you had better be ready or else!"

"How did you know the time?" Sherlock asked.

"I was out with Miss Honey at around six this morning. I saw the vandals' calling card and I actually touched the paint. It was wet, but not too much...just damp. There wasn't any dewfall or precipitation in our area, so it couldn't have been done late at night and then wet by a sudden bout of precipitation. It must have been done, then, around four to five in the morning," Matilda theorized.

Sherlock's eyebrows went up. "Age?"

"I'm six," Matilda replied, confused. "I turned six last Friday."

"Grade?"

"Secondary school."

"Are you lying?"

Both Matilda and Miss Honey told him, "No!"

"Sherlock!" Dr. Watson chastised indignantly. "Be nice!" He turned to the pair. "I'm so sorry about him, he can be very rude at times."

"I need to know your personal history. Why you two ended up as mother and daughter, where you came from. Who did you meet? Any enemies, people who are only too happy to harm you in any way out of bitterness in some past event? Miss Honey, you first," Sherlock poured out in one breath.

And for the second time that day, Miss Honey was forced to recapitulate her life story to someone else. Matilda half-listened and picked at her left thumbnail and stared at Sherlock's bookcase in a corner, longing to ask the man to borrow a book but apprehensive of his aggressive nature. He looked like he'd done drugs before too. Dr. Watson on the other hand, probably wasn't the mind powerhouse Sherlock was but was probably the nice guy. _He looks like a hedgehog,_ Matilda thought. _And his friend looks like an angry otter._ Itching with boredom, Matilda discreetly slipped her boots off and wiggled her toes in her striped socks. She looked over at the bookcase again. Probably a quarter of those books were about bees and beekeeping, another quarter was about crime, and the last half was filled with different reference books and other tomes.

"...And so, I inherited the house and moved in straightaway. One day, I was at the library. Matilda was there too, we were discussing some books. Suddenly, her parents, her brother, and her mum's ballroom dancing partner-part Italian, incredible upper-body strength, et cetera-burst in and tried to force Matilda to leave everything and go with them to Spain. She refused, and I stepped in and offered to take custody of her. They accepted, and the rest is basically history." Miss Honey finished.

"And you don't know where this Agatha Trunchbull ever went?" Dr. Watson inquired.

"Nobody ever did," replied Miss Honey.

"Okay, just wondering." Dr. Watson nodded once and turned his gaze to his companion on his left.

Sherlock was staring off into space as Dr. Watson asked Miss Honey his question. He shook his head slightly, as if dismissing an idea. "Matilda, you next."

Matilda wasn't paying attention, and Miss Honey ended up nudging her, whispering "Oi, it's your turn," with a hint of amusement in her tone.

"Oh. Okay," Matilda responded and prepared to tell the story of her life.

"I was born into a family of a father infatuated with cheating people out of their money through the selling of used cars, a mother obsessed with ballroom dancing, and a brother who could barely extend his vocabulary farther than his name, Michael, and the words "telly" and "backwards". My mother never wanted me: she always treated me like some disgusting bug. My father always called me a liar, and a cheat, and a nasty little creep. I ended up teaching myself a lot of things, like reading and mathematics. I was having a particularly rough time with reading, as the rest of the family chose to watch telly day in and day out and we had no reading material in the house but ballroom dancing magazines. One day, when I was about three years old, I was left alone in the house-"

"Excuse me, repeat the age," Sherlock interrupted abruptly.

"Three," Matilda repeated, puzzled.

"Repeat."

" _Three_ ," Matilda repeated, growing slightly annoyed. "And I'm _not lying_!"

"Continue," Sherlock waved her on.

"One day, when I was about three years old, I was left alone in the house. I got bored, so after opening a can of soup and thinking about what I should do for the day, I decided to pack a few snacks and go exploring around town. We live in a pretty small town anyway, so I just thought I'd walk around, look into the shop windows for a couple of hours, and then come straight home. I ended up finishing all of my snacks in the town square and wondering what to do next. It was then that I found a public library. I went in and found a benevolent woman by the name of Mrs. Phelps. I could tell she was a little bit suspicious as to why a girl so young would have any business wandering around town on her own, without any accompanying parent. She kept an eye on me for thirty minutes while I was wandering around the children's book section. Just before my fourth birthday, I finished the last book in the children's section and asked Mrs. Phelps about other books that I could enjoy. She immediately directed me over to the adult section and showed me the classics: Dickens, Kipling, Hugo...It was like a dream. Then, she made an exception and let me apply for a library card. That's when I began taking books home and reading to my heart's content."

Matilda took a deep breath and continued. "That's also around the time that I began making up stories and telling them to Mrs. Phelps. By that time, Mrs. Phelps was already an instrumental part of my life. She was like an aunt to me: the greatest aunt a girl like me could have. Right after my fifth birthday, my parents decided to throw me into school and have it over with. The day before the first day of school, I went to the library. There, I saw a kind-looking woman checking out a book. Little did I know that she would be both my teacher and my closest companion."

"After Miss Honey left, I began telling Mrs. Phelps a tragic tale about an acrobat and an escapologist and their greatest wish-"

Sherlock interrupted again. "Repeat the subject matter."

"An acrobat and an escapologist. The acrobat was a woman, the escapologist was a man."

Sherlock turned to Miss Honey. "What were your parents' professions again?"

"An acrobat and an escapologist, my mum was an acrobat and my dad was an escapologist." Miss Honey replied.

"I must tell you both that if you are lying, it will be much harder for me to solve your case!" Sherlock exclaimed in annoyance.

 _"I'm not lying!"_ Matilda exclaimed indignantly. "And don't you dare accuse my mum too, because Jennifer Honey would never lie! Why are you accusing us of lying to you when we've clearly turned up on your doorstep to seek _your_ help?!"

"Because, Matilda," Sherlock nearly yelled, "it's impossible for a five-year-old to tell someone else the life story of a woman that the child had merely glimpsed moments before!"

Matilda's line of vision began to be tinged at the edges with deep red, and she exploded.

"Well, I'm a child who can tell that you, Mr. Holmes, were a drug addict who is now solving the problems London gives him to take the place of the drugs he used to alleviate his ennui. You felt really insecure as a child because nobody really understood you and your mind, and the only one who understood you was your dog! But that's absolutely no excuse for you to bring your bitterness into adulthood and unleash it on the people around you when you have no cases to solve!"

Suddenly, a glass beaker shattered in the kitchen, startling everyone. The red erased itself from Matilda's line of vision and she threw herself backwards into the couch.

"Matilda!" Miss Honey exclaimed reproachfully. "That's not nice. Say you're sorry."

"No," Sherlock told her, leaning forwards with an air of interest. "What I want to know is...how did you do that?"

"Do what?" asked Matilda, still seething slightly.

"Find all of that out?"

"I just saw it," Matilda replied.

"Continue with your story."

"The next day, I went to school and was warned about the headmistress, Miss Trunchbull, by the older students. She performed many acts of terror in the class, once forcing one of my classmates to eat a whole cake and then throwing him into a torture device of sorts. Eventually, someone in my class decided to slip a newt into Miss Trunchbull's drink during phys ed. She thought I had done it, but I hadn't and it felt horrible. The newt actually got out and went into Miss Trunchbull's knickers, and she fled. That afternoon, Miss Honey took me to her house, which was really a shed, and that is when I realized that I'd been telling her parents' story all along. The next day, we as a class decided to revolt against Miss Trunchbull. We succeeded, and she fled the town. That afternoon, I went to the library, where my parents, brother, and my mother's dancing partner tried to drag me off to Spain to escape from victims of used-car fraud. Miss Honey offered to take custody of me, which they gladly accepted, and the rest is history." Matilda felt like she was pounding out every single word with a hammer.

"Who were the victims?" Sherlock asked.

Matilda didn't feel like holding it in any longer. "A Russian mafia group."

Dr. Watson gave a start and told her, "Good heavens, really?"

Matilda turned to Dr. Watson. "Yes, Dr. Watson. My father was so obsessed with the money, he didn't bother to check who his customers were. I convinced them to leave my father alone, though."

"How?" Sherlock asked.

"I...talked with them." Matilda felt this was obvious, but she tried not to add an "obviously" to the end.

"In Russian?"

"No, sir, in Tagalog," Matilda said sarcastically. "Of course in Russian, otherwise they wouldn't understand!"

"How did you learn Russian?"

"Taught myself."

"Matilda, I'm going to ask you a question, because to be honest, I'm curious, and I want it answered frankly." Sherlock's voice had suddenly become friendly, almost like one talking to an equal.

"Okay," Matilda responded, slightly confused.

"Do you organize your mind, and if so, how?"

Matilda gave some thought to the question before proceeding. "I just have all the information in my mind in sections and when I need something, it just appears."

"Thank you, both of you. This has been a most singular case. An eight, as a matter of fact. If John and I could accompany you both to your house, that would be fantastic."

"It's not a problem," Miss Honey replied, getting up and stretching. Matilda did the same as Dr. Watson and Sherlock stood and offered their right hands to shake.

"Don't forget your boots," Sherlock told Matilda as he grabbed a coat and scarf.

* * *

 **Okay...so what do you think? This is just a small idea I had wiggling at the back of my head and my first crossover. So, please comment and tell me what you think about what's going on! Thanks very much for reading this long chapter. We'll see how the story progresses very soon. Always, Rielle**


	2. The Old House At The Edge Of Town

**A/N:** _Hello, citizens of Earth! I got some pretty good reception from Ch. 1, so here is the next installment of A Most Singular Case, Indeed. Just to let you know: this is **musical-verse.** If you don't know about the musical, **it can be considered AU for both the movie and the book.** Plus, **please assume that both Miss Honey and Matilda are on Christmas holiday, and that this fic takes place RIGHT BEFORE REICHENBACH.** That might be an important point for the future chapters *wink wink* And, as you may have noticed, I tacked on a "Johnlock" to the end of the description. Yes, this story will eventually be mild Johnlock. Yes, I do realize that I've posted a Sherlolly fic before. For the full explanation, read my profile. Anyways, enough with the A/N, and here's the chapter. Enjoy!_

 **Fangurrrling221B:** Congrats on being first reviewer! ;) Anyways, I'm glad you're excited about this. It's going to heat up really soon, as well as touch on some points I had problems with in canon. You'll see what I mean in a bit *smiles mischievously*

 **LittleReaderOfBooks:** AAHHH Maia you read it :D! Glad you're ready to find out what's happening next. CUPCAKES!

 **Guest:** Hey there! I'm glad you appreciate this fic. I hope you'll like this next chapter :)

 **JannaKalderash:** Haha, I agree! Sherlock really needs to cut back on that rudeness of his... ;D

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

 **The Old House At The Edge Of Town**

The whole party, consisting of Sherlock, John (he'd insisted that Miss Honey and Matilda call him so), Miss Honey, and Matilda set off in a mysterious black car that had pulled up for Sherlock after a few texts to an unknown person. Miss Honey and Matilda had taken public transport, so this was no problem for them. Sherlock and John had intended to carry out their investigation at the Honey residence, so two suitcases sat in the boot, packed with a few days' worth of clothing.

Matilda had her nose buried in a book. "You can borrow a book," Sherlock had said, waving vaguely at the bookcase. Matilda had made her choice carefully and had ended up choosing a book called Notes Upon The Organization Of The Human Mind by one Sherrinford Sigerson. However, now that she was well into the thick book, Matilda was fairly convinced that Sherlock himself had authored the work, although under a pseudonym.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked her, corroborating Matilda's guess on the author's true identity.

"It's quite nice," Matilda replied, slipping a paint swatch she'd discovered in her coat pocket into her page to keep it in place. She did so rather awkwardly, as she was sandwiched between John on her left and Sherlock on her right. Miss Honey was sitting in the front passenger seat, ready to direct the driver to the house. As she closed the book, Matilda found a bookmark being wiggled in her line of vision. She looked up and saw Sherlock handing it to her. Slowly, Matilda accepted the bookmark and neatly wiggled it into the book, muttering "Thank you," as she did so.

Three-quarters of an hour later, the car turned into the town's main road, and Miss Honey started issuing directions. Looking out the right window, Matilda thought she saw her friend Lavender walking her dog with her older sister, but she couldn't wave at her because of the sheer awkwardness of having to reach across a thirty year old man. As the car passed, the younger girl pointed at the car. It was indeed Lavender. Matilda twisted around in her seat and waved at Lavender as the car passed. Lavender, stunned, put a hand up to her ear, mouthing _Call me!_ at Matilda. Matilda nodded and turned around.

After a few minutes, the car turned into the gravel path leading to the old house at the edge of town. Miss Honey directed the car to stop. Everyone disembarked and unloaded their belongings, Sherlock muttered a few words to the driver, and the car executed a neat U-turn and sped away. "This way," Miss Honey directed, shaking her keys out of her bag and handing them to Matilda. "You do the honors, 'Til."

Matilda ran up the path, unlocked the door with a smooth twist of her wrist, and sat down on the front step. A few seconds passed and Miss Honey, John, and Sherlock came up the path, Sherlock looking around quickly and John looking a little confused. Matilda sprang up and opened the door. The mail had been delivered, and Matilda scooped the envelopes and papers up: a bill, an advertisement for a cleaning service, and Matilda's favorite astronomy magazine. Matilda held the door open for Miss Honey and the two men, shutting and locking the door behind them as they passed through.

John was slowly turning around in the foyer. "I remember this place," he murmured.

From further down the hallway to the kitchen, Miss Honey and Sherlock turned. "Really?" Miss Honey asked.

"Yeah," John replied distractedly. "I attended a family reunion here. When I was ten."

"Was my mother alive at that time?" Miss Honey asked softly.

"Yeah...I remember her now. Auntie Andrea. But I don't remember you...Of course I don't, you weren't born yet. I'm Andrea's nephew, now I remember. I knew the name Andrea Honey was really familiar. I didn't recognize Agatha Trunchbull's name, she must have married or something. Not many people really know that Andrea had a brother, too: my da."

Sherlock broke in, his voice betraying a hint of shock. "So, you're Miss Honey's cousin?"

John nodded.

"If we're to call you by your first names, you can call us by ours," Miss Honey said to Sherlock and John. Then she turned to John, her face showing signs of disbelief. "So, you're my cousin. Why haven't I met you? Why didn't my dad tell me about you?" Then her face softened slightly. "So you met my mother. What was she like?"

Matilda stepped closer, curious to learn about the acrobat she'd only met through a story.

"She was really nice...she looked rather a lot like you, except she wore circular instead of oblong spectacles. She was wearing this glittery white scarf. It seemed like she'd been wearing it for a while."

"The scarf!" Miss Honey and Matilda exclaimed in unison.

"Ye-e-s," John replied. "Aunt Andrea was really an amazing woman. She seemed to love kids and now that you've told me about her life, I guess I can see why. She was always so doting to me and Harry. She baked cookies for us on the spot and gave us gifts."

Miss Honey's eyes filled with tears as John said the next words. "I think she was trying to treat us like the children she thought she'd never be able to have. And then I heard that she'd died, having you. We didn't know the specifics, except that it was a horrible accident."

Sherlock listened to all of this stoically. Matilda still stood in the hallway, shocked. This John Watson had had a bond with her mum that they hadn't even realized until now. Miss Honey had gotten a cousin and aunt and Matilda a great-aunt and uncle in the space of less than a day, and had brought two men back home with them. It was, to be frank, an absolute shock.

Miss Honey wiped away her tears and told the two men, "All right, you two. Just wait here, I'll get the guest rooms ready for you. Matilda, get something to eat."

"Sure, Mum," Matilda replied perkily and stood on a stool to open a cupboard. Reaching in, she grabbed a loaf of bread and some jam.

"Tea for me, thanks," Sherlock told her.

"Sherlock, don't be rude," John chastised him.

"That's quite all right," Matilda said, "I was just going to put the kettle on."

Matilda silently went about her work, laying a bread knife by the loaf and putting the kettle on. After she did so, she sat across from Sherlock and opened her astronomy magazine.

 _Tap. Tap. Taptaptap._

Matilda knew the tapping signal, but she still had to make sure of who was administering the percussion on the door. With both Sherlock's and John's eyes on her, she flipped her magazine closed and hurried to the door leading to the garden. Peeking through the window, she recognized the twisted-up hair of Lavender.

 _Tap. Tap. Taptaptap. "Please let me in."_

Matilda tapped back.

 _Tap. Taptap. Taptap. "Sure. Stay back. Stay back."_

Lavender stepped back, and Matilda opened the door outwards. Lavender stepped over the threshold and burst, "I was with Ella and we saw you in that black car! But I didn't see you at first because of this curly guy sitting beside you! And then you waved at us from the back of the car, so we knew it was you. Who was the curly guy? What's he doing here?" obviously not noticing the "curly guy" sitting at the breakfast nook table.

Matilda tried to think of a good response to the last two questions. However, she didn't need to respond, as Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. Matilda twisted around and Lavender gasped. "That's the curly guy! What's he doing in your house with…er…Hedgehog Guy?"

" _Hedgehog guy?!_ " John spluttered, Sherlock chuckling at his expression.

"Come on, let's go to the porch swing. I'll tell you all about it," Matilda told Lavender, shutting the door. She turned to the two men. "Mr. Sherlock, Mr. John—"

"Just Sherlock and John, thanks."

"Sherlock, John, if my mum comes back, can you please tell her I'm on the porch swing with Lavender?"

"All right," John replied with an easy smile.

"Thanks," Matilda told him gratefully and said to Lavender, "This way."

They shut the front door behind them and headed for the porch swing. "Where's Ella?" Matilda asked.

"Oh, she's waiting with Willow, y'know, the beagle. Ella gave me ten minutes to talk with you. But that's not the point!" Lavender exclaimed the last bit and turned to face Matilda. "What are two men doing in your house? What're their names again—Sherlock and John?"

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

"Did they come about the thing with the shed?" Lavender asked, her eyes wide.

"We-e-e-e-ll," Matilda stretched out, "you'd better not tell anyone about this," she explained, dropping her voice. "Promise?"

"Okay."

"Yes, they're here about the shed."

Lavender took a sharp intake of breath. "And they're staying in your house?"

"Yes."

"In your house?" Lavender asked incredulously, as if she couldn't believe it.

Suddenly, the front door opened, and Miss Honey stuck her head out. "Oh, hello Lavender," she said. "Is Petronella waiting for you?"

"Yes, Miss Honey, she's right at the gate."

"I could see her from the front guest room. It looks like she's waiting for you. We've got some visitors over, did you see them?"

"Oh, yes, the hedgehog guy and curly guy, I saw them."

Miss Honey threw her head back and laughed. "Hedgehog guy! I hope he doesn't hear that."

"Bit too late for that," Matilda muttered to Lavender, who clapped both hands over her mouth to suppress her giggles.

"Well, anyway, he's actually my cousin. Matilda, you need to come inside. Lavender, Petronella's waiting, you'd best go to her now. See you after holidays," Miss Honey told the two girls.

"Call me," Matilda added to Lavender. "And say hello to Ella for me, we're in the same geometry class."

"Okay, bye Matilda, bye Miss Honey! Say bye to Curly and Hedgehog for me, too."

"All right!" Matilda and Miss Honey laughed. "Bye, Lavender!"

Lavender raced down the gravel path and Matilda stepped inside and went to the kitchen with Miss Honey.

Sherlock and John were still sitting at the table, Sherlock with a cup of tea in front of him and John with a half-eaten piece of bread smothered with jam. At the sight of the latter, Miss Honey laughed, saying, "I always spread a lot of jam on my bread. My father always told me that my mother had done the same."

John laughed at that, and told her, "I guess it runs in the family then...it's a Watson thing."

"I prepared the two guest rooms upstairs for both of you," Miss Honey told the two men. "When you go up the stairs at the end of the hallway, just turn right and the rooms are to your right. Sherlock, yours is first. Then it's John's room. I'll show you when you're done eating, and then we can go out to the shed."

Matilda pulled open a drawer and took out a chocolate bar. She brought it to her seat at the breakfast table and flipped open her magazine. After reading a couple of pages, she vaguely noticed John talking. Matilda jerked up her head and found that John was addressing her. "Er...excuse me?" she asked, swallowing her bite of chocolate.

"I was asking about how long you've had an interest in astronomy."

Matilda wrinkled her nose, pondering the question for a while.

"Since I was really, really little, I guess. I liked looking out of my window at night because I knew I'd always see the stars winking at me and the moon casting its glow across the floor."

"Well," John said, "I'm asking you because this gigantic drama queen," he jerked a thumb at Sherlock, "doesn't even know that the Earth goes around the Sun."

Matilda clapped a hand to her mouth, giggling at the sight of Sherlock's embarrassed face.

"That is one of the things I have to go through, Jennifer," John said, talking to Miss Honey now, "living with Sherlock bloody Holmes."

Miss Honey started to laugh too, while Sherlock jumped up impatiently. "Can we have a look at the shed now?"

"All right," Miss Honey said, her laughter finally subsiding. "This way."

Miss Honey led the two men and Matilda to the shed, through the vegetable garden running on the side of the house. They all paused grimly in front of the sight: the shed emblazoned with blood-red words and two knives buried into the wood.

Sherlock paused for a second, examining the sight. Then, he strolled over to the knives and jerked one out of the wood. All over the blade was a dark red stain.

"Is that..." Miss Honey began to ask, but Sherlock must have deduced what she was about to inquire and shot back, "I can't tell right now. I need to take it to the lab in Bart's Hospital, I have something that we can use to tell if it really is blood."

John was close to the paint marks, scraping some of the paint. As Matilda watched, a piece flaked off of the shed underneath his fingernail. It fell to the ground, and John bent to pick it up. "Have you a plastic bag on hand?" he asked Miss Honey. "A small one?"

"Yes, I have," Miss Honey said. "I'll be right back."

She ran off to the house, her blond hair flying behind her. Soon, she came back with two bags. "One for the knife, one for the paint chip and any more evidence you'll need," she panted. Catching her breath, she gasped, "That is, if you'd like to take some more samples of the paint. 'Sall right with me, I've already got the picture of the shed on my phone anyway."

"Of course I would," Sherlock told her, accepting the plastic bags.

Matilda watched as he dropped the knife into one bag and a few paint chips in the other. _What would he find from those?_

Matilda was rather disappointed to say that she didn't know quite yet.

Night fell, and the four ate dinner and retired to their separate rooms. Matilda lay awake in her bed, watching the moonlight through her window spill across the room. The gears in her mind couldn't stop turning and as a result, she couldn't sleep. Visions of what had occurred that day flashed across her mind: 221B, the meeting with Sherlock Holmes the angry otter, bringing Sherlock and John back to the house, seeing Lavender, the four standing at the shed. More often than not, the memory of Matilda telling her life story flashed across her mind. Abandoning all attempts to sleep, Matilda flicked on her light and crossed the room to her bookshelf. She took a tin box from one of the shelves and sat on her rug with it. Opening it, she took out the newspaper clippings and other papers inside and laid them on the rug.

Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door. Matilda jerked her head up, heart pounding. Another knock sounded, and Matilda jumped up and rifled through her drawer for something that would serve as a weapon. Eventually, she settled for a copy of _Les Miserables_ and slowly walked to the door.

Matilda gently lowered herself near the door and whispered into the lock, "Who is this?"

"It's Sherlock," came a reply. "May I come in?"

Matilda's heart pounded even faster. _What if it's a trap?_ she couldn't help but think. She paused and listened closely to the hallway, running scenarios through her head. She couldn't hear anyone else in the hallway, so it was highly improbable that someone was forcing Sherlock to talk to her. Matilda whispered back into the lock, "Okay."

The door slowly opened, and Matilda tensed with the copy of _Les Miserables_ clutched in her hands, poised to strike. A man with a head of curly hair eased into the room, dressed in a dress shirt and pants. Matilda recognized his face and relaxed considerably.

"It isn't very menacing when a six-year-old is threatening a thirty-something man with a novel, so I would recommend that you make a better choice of weapon if, in the future, you find yourself with an intruder on the other side of the door."

By this time, Matilda had already sat down on the floor, re-arranging each newspaper clipping, paper, or occasional photo and examining each.

"What are these?" Sherlock asked softly, sitting down next to Matilda on the floor.

Matilda looked at the newspaper clipping in her hands. _Fraudulent Used-Car Dealer Arrested Abroad, To Be Extradited Back To England_ , the type read along with a grayscale picture of a man with bleached hair, a middle-aged, over-primped woman with curls scraped up in a messy ponytail, a boy tapping away on a mobile phone, and a man executing a dance pose while a police officer looked on with a half-amused, half-annoyed expression.

"My family," Matilda replied. "My old family. But that's not where I should start," she told Sherlock, laying the clipping aside. She picked up an older photograph, beginning to soften at the edges. In it, a small baby peered inquisitively at the camera, as if scrutinizing the object being held in front of her.

"That's you, isn't it?" Sherlock asked Matilda.

"Yes," Matilda replied. "The only photo of me as a very small child, in fact. I don't think my biological parents even remembered that they had it, or this photograph would never have been here. The hospital in which I was born had a tradition of photographing each child before they left the hospital. And…this was mine." She laid the photo aside and took hold of a small plastic card, worn from frequent use. The words _Public Library Card: Matilda Wormwood_ marched across it in neat black type. "This was my first library card. I got a new one when Mum adopted me and I changed my surname, but I kept the old one out of pure sentiment."

"Sentiment. Never really understood why it was so important," Sherlock mumbled.

Matilda laid the card aside and pulled a crisp document towards her. "This one is probably one of the most important," she smiled.

"Oh, the adoption paper," Sherlock realized.

"Precisely. I think it explains itself."

Next came a few algebra tests, all with perfect scores, and a dissertation of Great Expectations. "That was one of my favorite books, I loved it," Matilda breathed.

"So, after the events with Miss Trunchbull, you got moved to a higher form?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yup," Matilda replied happily. "And all because..." she trailed off, picking up a photograph, "of this."

Sherlock and Matilda peered at the photo, in which Matilda and Miss Honey were standing on a stage. In the image, Matilda had folded her hands and was smiling graciously at the camera. Miss Honey was accepting a certificate from a superintendent and shaking his hand. "That's when Mum became the headmistress of Crunchem Hall. Because of Mum's efforts, nobody is afraid to go to school anymore. And everyone enjoys their classes and their teachers even more. She's still trying to get permission to change the name, but we're not sure about that part yet."

Matilda set down the photo and picked up the most recent paper: the newspaper clipping of the family.

"This was my old family. The one with bleached hair was my father. The one with curly hair, my mother. The boy on the phone was my brother. And the man striking the pose is my mother's dance partner. There still isn't any word on what their fate is to be: they were only taken into custody last month. And no, it wasn't the Russian mafia that exposed them. It was me, and our next door neighbors. Their friends had been basically pickpocketed for a banged-up old car, I supplied the information, and that was that. I would save my father from the Russian mafia, but I wouldn't save him from the real people that he scammed and the lies that he told to them."

"Matilda, you certainly have a lot more steel than you let on," remarked Sherlock.

"Mm, never thought of it that way," replied Matilda.

Silence fell for a full thirty seconds, and then Matilda launched into speech.

"I'm really sorry for exploding at you in your flat. I shouldn't have just yelled your own life story back at you and...I'm just really sorry for that."

"Matilda," Sherlock drawled, "You don't need to apologize. Apologizing for things for which you should not be apologetic is boring. I was actually quite intrigued. I told the frame of your life story from where you looked when you walked in to the flat, the ends of your hair, and your disposition. You, on the other hand, figured out that I had a drug problem and a dog from literally no clues whatsoever. I see, and I observe. You, actually, seem to bypass the "observe" part of the equation. You see, and it presents itself to you straightaway. Example number two: Miss Honey."

"Actually, Sherlock, I really don't know how I knew Miss Honey's life story, I really don't. I just watched her leave and then it popped into my head just like _that_. I don't think I did much of the observing part."

Silence fell again. Then Matilda spoke.

"You and I, we're the storytellers. We see people's stories, and we tell them. It's what we do. Everyone has a story, and you know that full well. Everyone has a story. It's just up to people like us, the storytellers, to tell them."

Sherlock hummed contemplatively, then he jumped to his feet.

"Well, it was a pleasure to speak with you. Just wondering, where's the bathroom?"

"Turn right, door on the left at the end of the hallway. What are you doing, wandering around in a suit at so late an hour?"

"Oh, I never really sleep," Sherlock said lazily, with a wave of his hand. "Sleeping's boring."

"Oh, okay. G'night then."

"Get into bed, I'll turn off the lights," Sherlock said as Matilda packed away the tin box safely. She climbed into bed and called out, "Ready."

"Good night, Matilda." The lights flicked off.

"Good night, Sherlock Holmes," she whispered as the door shut.

* * *

 **Oh dear me, that was a long one to create! Well, expect the next chapter in maybe a few days' time. Thanks for sticking with me, and please review! Always, Rielle**


	3. Scotland Yard Isn't Actually In Scotland

_A/N: Hey everyone! We're back with our favorite storyteller and our favorite consulting detective, in less time than I thought. It took me less time to make this chapter than the other chapters, don't know why. I'm especially interested at what you'll all think of this chapter *smiles suspiciously* In this one, we're going to a couple of familiar places and seeing a few familiar faces. (Wow, I rhymed! That's a new one.) I OWN NOTHING, or Season Three would have gone much differently than it actually did. Allons-y!_

 **LittleReaderOfBooks:** Hey Maia! Glad I made you happy :) Believe me, when I say that I do my best to make each character seem alive, I really mean it. I'm glad you like how I've presented my characters. That's how they are in my Mind Palace, y'know.

 **Fangurrrling221B:** Hello, glad to see you back here again! I honestly can't resist having Sherlock and Matilda converse. Two great minds, just chatting...ah, I love it!

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

 **Scotland Yard Isn't Actually In Scotland, and It Has A Lot More Gossip Than You Think**

Sunlight filtered into the room through the curtains as Matilda opened her eyes. Suddenly, everything came flooding back: Aunt Martha, 221B, Uncle John, Sherlock, the nighttime conversation. Matilda sat up abruptly. Her gaze drifted to the door. A cream envelope was taped to it. Matilda squinted at it for a few seconds, then got up and padded over to it. Carefully, she unstuck it from the door and weighed it in her hands. It felt expensive, the type of envelope one could obtain in a stationery store. She flipped it over. The flap wasn't sealed, and Matilda reached into the envelope and took out a folded piece of paper. Laying the envelope on her dresser, Matilda unfolded the paper and read its contents.

 _Matilda,_ it read, _your mother gave you permission to accompany me to London today. We'll be making a few stops, and I'd like you to come along. Dress in something that is easy to run in. Take a book too, maybe. And when you're ready, go downstairs and have some breakfast. We'll be departing right afterwards. See you. SH_

 _PS: Give the envelope back to me later, I don't have many more of those. Thanks._

A trip to London! Matilda threw the paper on the dresser and quickly grabbed some clothes out of her dresser drawers. A pair of leggings, a decent, navy-blue skirt, a white polo, a cream-colored jumper, a pair of black trainers, and a single braid down her back completed her outfit, and after shabbily throwing her bed together and packing her purse, Matilda ran all the way down the stairs and burst into the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting at the table, calmly sipping a cup of tea. John was working his way through a piece of toast covered with jam. Miss Honey was calmly setting a plate of toast on the table. "For you, Matilda," she said. "Morning."

"Hi, Mum. Hi, Uncle John. Hi, Sherlock," Matilda greeted everyone.

"Morning," Uncle John replied.

"Envelope?" Sherlock asked.

"Later," Matilda responded.

"Fine," Sherlock sighed, taking another sip of his tea.

Matilda sat down and spread some butter on her toast. Taking a bite out of it, she got up and went to the refrigerator. Matilda took out a carton of orange juice and poured some into a cup. The rest of breakfast passed by without too much event, and eventually Matilda excused herself and went upstairs to brush her teeth and grab her bag.

After brushing her teeth, Matilda ran into her room and picked up her bag. As an afterthought she picked up the cream envelope and slipped it into _Notes Upon The Organization Of The Human Mind._

Matilda ran downstairs and back into the kitchen. Sherlock was now leaning against the counter nonchalantly, his coat on and his collar flipped up. He, Uncle John, and Miss Honey were talking with each other.

"So, you're going to explore the attic while I'm gone?" Sherlock asked.

"That's what I'd like," Miss Honey replied. "I honestly haven't been there since I got this house."

"Right, John, your duty while I'm away is to search through the attic with Jennifer. We need a look into the past, see if we have any recognizable adversaries. Matilda and I are going to London. First, we're going to drop off at the Yard and inform Lestrade of our whereabouts, then we're going to Bart's to analyze the samples we collected yesterday. Should only take about half the day, we'll be back soon."

Matilda cleared her throat noisily.

"Ah, she's here. Right, we'd better be off."

Matilda said, "Bye, Mum. Bye, Uncle John."

"Behave!" Miss Honey called after Matilda.

"You too, Sherlock!" yelled John, making Matilda giggle.

The pair walked out the door and up the gravel path towards the gate. The black car was waiting at the gate, and Sherlock opened the door for Matilda. "After you," he said, looking about.

"Thanks," Matilda replied, climbing into the car.

Sherlock climbed in after her and shut the door. He leaned forward and told the driver, "Scotland Yard, please."

The car began to launch into motion, and Matilda glanced, astonished, at Sherlock. "Scotland Yard? _The_ Scotland Yard?"

"Yup," Sherlock replied, popping the "p". "When they're out of their depth, which is basically most of the time, they come to me."

"Don't you get paid?"

"The work's the payment, a chance for me to put my mind to use. If it's not in use, it will tear itself apart."

 _Or you'll resort to drugs,_ Matilda thought quietly, but she didn't dare to say that out loud.

"Right, a few things before we get there," Sherlock said, turning to Matilda. "First: the envelope?"

"Oh!" Matilda exclaimed, drawing it out of her bag. "Here," she replied, handing the cream envelope to Sherlock.

"Thanks. Next, the Yard is not only a place where criminals are put to justice. With so many people about, it is also..."

"A gossip-monger?" Matilda guessed.

"Precisely. As long as you're with me, just call me Sherlock. You're going to have to be John's niece."

"But I _am_ John's niece," Matilda pointed out.

"They'll suspect otherwise, what with your...storyteller's disposition, your massive intellect, the fact that you don't look at all like a Watson, and that you've got a bit of a sassy streak. By the way, do keep the sassy streak up, it'll prove quite useful in future. Anyway, I just decided to take you around London for the day, see the sights, blah blah blah. Just you and your uncle's flatmate, who offered to look after you for the day and who _just happened to_ have to run a couple errands. After all, you are six years old, and because of your size you look younger. Remember that, all right? There's a bunch of people in the Yard who've probably set up a betting pool to see if I'm going to have a kid with someone whose name may or may not be John Watson."

"Well then." Matilda raised an eyebrow. "Kind of strange, but okay, I'll do that."

Sherlock didn't say any more.

"What about the third thing?" Matilda asked.

"What third thing?" Sherlock asked her, his brows furrowing.

"Usually, people list in threes."

"Am I _people_ , Matilda? Do I even look like _people_?"

"No, you're an alien that fell out of the sky and is yet to understand the habits of humanity. Never mind, Sherlock."

The driver almost quirked a smile, but Matilda couldn't tell.

Eventually, the car pulled up outside Scotland Yard. Sherlock got out of the car first, and Matilda clambered out after him.

"Can you hold it here, please?" he asked the driver, then he turned and said, "Come on, Matilda."

Matilda raced after him as they walked into Scotland Yard.

"Remember, Matilda," Sherlock muttered, "Play the part. It's just like a play. You're a good enough actress, play the part."

"Yes, all right," Matilda replied, struggling to catch up with Sherlock's abnormally large strides. She had to do so by half-jogging, her bag bouncing around. "Can you maybe _slow down_? I'm six down here."

Sherlock quirked a smile and slowed his pace slightly.

"Thank you," Matilda told him, slightly out of breath.

Soon, the pair stopped right near a crowded work area. Sherlock made sure nobody was watching, then he stepped behind a wall and motioned for Matilda to come over.

"Right, Matilda, it's crucial that you play the part right now. I'm actually not particularly worried about what they will think of me. I'm a bit worried, however, about what they'll think of you. Yes, you, Matilda. Quite a few of them think I'm an utter psychopath. Which I'm not, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. With that kind of assumption, they'd be only too happy to arrest me on charges of kidnapping and abuse. But don't worry, not all of them are like that. Just stick to me and play the part. That all right?"

"'Kay, Sherlock. I'm ready."

"Atta girl. Let's go."

They walked straight into the work area, and Matilda drew her head up as high as it could possibly be without seeming too aloof. She straightened up, squared her shoulders, and adjusted her bag. Sherlock dropped to a pace that was easy for her to follow without making her look frail. It was a perfect entrance.

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. The whole area went silent, and everyone stared at the two. A man with silver hair who looked like he needed a shave ( _He must be really stressed,_ Matilda thought) was standing by the water, holding a cup. He had been talking with a dark-haired woman, but his head turned to see what the commotion was about. His eyes widened, he dropped the cup, and he nearly spat out his water, much to Matilda's amusement. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from giggling. Sherlock's eyes seemed to be trained on the man.

The silver-haired man regained his composure, and he waved at everyone else, calling authoritatively, "Keep working, stop gawking. This is Scotland Yard, not the tabloids."

"Straight this way, Matilda," Sherlock said, and to her utter surprise, he gently took her hand in his gloved hand and led her around the work area to the silver-haired man. Once the pair got to the water area, Sherlock dropped her hand.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is Matilda Honey. Matilda Honey, Detective Inspector Gil Lestrade," Sherlock introduced.

"How do you do?" Matilda asked politely, extending her hand.

Lestrade tentatively took it and shook. "I'm well, thanks. And it's Greg, not Gil. You?"

"Fantastic," she grinned.

"Well then, Freak," a voice came. Matilda let go of Lestrade's hand and looked up. The dark-haired woman Lestrade had been talking to earlier was sneering at Sherlock. Apparently she'd just called him a freak. Judging by Sherlock's bored expression, he got this a lot from her. Indignation rose in Matilda's throat. _Nobody should have to be called a freak!_ Matilda's mind screamed.

"And this," Sherlock drawled lazily, "is the _charming_ Sergeant Sally Donovan. Sergeant, this is Matilda Honey."

"Good morning," Matilda said politely, though Matilda added a touch of a chill in her voice. "How are you?" she asked, extending her hand again.

Sergeant Donovan completely ignored her. "So, who's the affair with, Freak? How'd you get a kid, too? Is it that John Watson of yours, the one who follows you around everywhere like your little lapdog?"

"Donovan," Lestrade began, a hint of a warning in his voice.

"Or did you just get some girl off the streets and force her into bed with you, and you produced-"

"Donovan!"

Matilda couldn't stand it any longer. She balled her hand into a fist and withdrew it. "In case you didn't notice, _the kid_ is right here. And _the kid_ has a mouth and brain and isn't afraid to use both of them."

Lestrade looked like he was suppressing his laughter.

"Oh, wonderful, a mini-Freak. You sure it isn't yours?"

Matilda cut into Sherlock's response and said loudly, "For your information, I'm not an _it_ , I'm a regular human being and I feel that I deserve to be treated like one. Secondly, I'm John Watson's niece. You know, that 'lapdog' you were talking about?"

The whole room was listening intently. Donovan looked shocked, and a flash of inspiration stole into Matilda's mind. Hopefully Sherlock and Lestrade (he looked like a nice guy, anyway) wouldn't mind too much, but this Donovan seemed like a real prick.

"And thirdly, with all due respect, I wouldn't be going on about an affair if I were you, seeing as you're currently in one, _Sergeant Donovan_."

Someone in the silent room clapped, but the applause was instantly suppressed. Lestrade paled considerably, and he mouthed something along the lines of _How does she know that?!_ to Sherlock, to which Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and mouthed back, _I told her absolutely nothing about you or Donovan. And that's the truth._

Donovan paled too, and stepped back. The whole room was silently staring at her. "Oi! What are you looking at? Get to work, all of you," Donovan snapped and whirled away.

The room went back to normal, and Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "I have a feeling my brother's monitoring my texts, but I'd like to let you know that I'll be out of town for a bit, and I might need a bit of help. I'm on a case for a cousin of John's. This is her daughter, Matilda," Sherlock added, jerking a thumb at Matilda. Lestrade's eyes flicked to Matilda and then back to Sherlock. "I'll text you if I need any help, so I'd like you to be ready at any moment."

"What's going on with John's cousin?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"Local police overlooked it, but I'm sure there's something more. Strange occurrences of vandalism around the garden shed, they got very threatening yesterday morning, and that's when John's cousin decided to come to us. Mrs. Hudson suggested it: she's John's cousin's aunt. Long story, but apparently John's related to Mrs. Hudson by marriage."

Lestrade looked as if his brain had exploded, but he nodded and replied, "Oh...kay, then. I'll do that."

"Great, thanks. Laters," Sherlock said, and said, "Let's go, then, Matilda." Matilda was about to follow, but she had to say something to Donovan, who had hung around for the entire conversation, staring at her.

"Have fun with the affair," she whispered, soft enough for only Lestrade, Donovan, and Sherlock to hear, grinning cheekily all through. "'Bye, Mr. Lestrade. Been nice meeting you," she turned to Lestrade and bounded off with Sherlock, leaving a fuming Donovan and amused Lestrade behind them.

They managed to get outside quickly and found the car still waiting for them. They climbed in, and as the car pulled away, Sherlock, to Matilda's shock, burst into laughter.

"That was fantastic, Matilda. Just fantastic."

"Oh, the Donovan lady?" Matilda shrugged. "'Twas nothing, really. She was bullying you. That's not right."

"But... _oh my God_...you exposed her affair to the whole Yard, that was really hilarious. She'd had that one coming for a while."

Matilda started laughing, too. "It was kind of fun, to tell you the truth."

They laughed companionably for a few moments, and then their laughter subsided. "Bart's, please," Sherlock told the driver.

"Bart's? The hospital?" Matilda asked.

"Yes, I sometimes make use of their labs, their morgue, and if I want a favor, their pathologist. Which reminds me..." Sherlock drew out his phone and quickly tapped something out. He sent it off and clicked his phone off, shoving it back into his coat pocket.

"Right, to Bart's then." Sherlock sighed, settling back into his seat.

It was nearly noon by then, and Matilda was starting to get uncomfortably hungry. "Um, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Mhm, yes?"

"When's lunch?"

"Not to worry, I took care of that. Called in a few favors," Sherlock replied easily.

Matilda took this at face value and settled back into her seat, opening _Notes Upon The Organization Of The Human Mind_ and perusing it silently until they pulled up in front of a stately hospital.

"We're here," Sherlock told Matilda and leapt out of the car. Matilda followed, gazing up at the tall white building into which they were about to enter.

The car drove away, and Matilda walked to the pathology building with Sherlock.

A few flights of whitewashed stairs later, the pair emerged into a hallway and Sherlock entered a lab. He held the door open for Matilda and flicked on the lights. "Here we are," he said, with a hint of pride in his voice. _He's almost like a proud uncle, showing off to his niece,_ Matilda thought, but this thought was immediately overridden by the sight in front of her.

The lights shuddered to life, and Matilda's breath caught as she saw the long tables filled with scientific equipment and various books.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked her, still sounding like a proud uncle. "I use this place lots, either for cases or for when I'm bored."

"It's amazing," Matilda breathed. "They allow you to use all of this?"

"Yup," said Sherlock, popping his "p" and hanging his long coat on a hook. "There's a couple stools around here and a few books you might be interested in, just have a look around."

"So, what are you going to be doing here?"

"First, I'm going to analyze the paint chips, might take a bit, so get something to interest yourself with. Then, I'll test the substance on the knife. I have something that reacts specifically to hemoglobin and hemoglobin alone, so that'll be put to good use. You know, hemoglobin, it's present in the blood of mammals."

"The test works on dried blood?" Matilda asked curiously, quirking an eyebrow.

"Dried, congealed, in any form, the test will still react to hemoglobin."

"That's cool," she breathed, both eyebrows going straight up. Matilda sat right down on a stool and pulled a book towards her.

"And you were talking about lunch earlier—it's coming," Sherlock noted. Almost at that instant, the door swung open and a woman entered, a purse on one arm and a paper bag clutched in the other.

"Oh, hi Sherlock," she said softly, reaching a hand up to swipe a piece of chestnut-brown hair behind her right ear and blushing slightly.

As the woman blinked, Matilda narrowed her eyes and time seemed to slow down as she looked from Sherlock to the woman standing awkwardly in the doorway. She hopped off the stool and found that time was standing still. _Okay…something's up here, what do I need to figure out?_ Matilda thought and walked up to the woman. Having been caught in the middle of a blink when time had frozen, the woman's eyes were halfway closed. She was still blushing. Matilda turned quickly from her and walked over to Sherlock. He was looking at the woman, Matilda realized, with extreme stoicism. Although he had a smile on his face, Matilda could tell that it wasn't absolutely genuine. Matilda couldn't shake off the fact that this situation wasn't right in some way. She walked back to the woman in the doorway. _There's something I'm missing, something subtle, something…small,_ Matilda realized and scrutinized the woman even more. _Something subtle, something small…Aha!_ Matilda grinned in elation. She'd found it—the woman was blushing! But…why?

 _Blushing…_ what did that imply?

Matilda hopped back onto her stool and thought back. Blushing…when did she remember seeing someone older blushing? And then it hit her. Petronella, Lavender's older sister!

During geometry classes, Matilda sat next to Petronella (or Ella, as she liked to be called). During group discussions, Matilda and Ella turned around to speak with Sterling and Ray, who sat in the desks behind them. Every time Ray asked Ella a question, Ella blushed slightly and tucked some of her hair behind an ear. Obviously, Ella had a crush on Ray! But how did this apply to the woman in the doorway?

Time shuddered back into motion around Matilda as she realized.

 _This woman has a crush on Sherlock!_

Matilda heard Sherlock say, "Ah, Molly, coffee, thanks."

"Black, two sugars. Just how you always like it," Molly smiled shyly and gave Sherlock the coffee cup. "And what about the pasta you ordered?"

"Allow me," Sherlock replied. He gestured over to Matilda on the stool, saying, "This is Matilda Honey. Matilda, this is Dr. Molly Hooper, resident pathologist."

"Hi, Matilda!" Molly waved cheerfully at Matilda. Matilda waved back. "Hello, Dr. Hooper."

"Molly, Matilda is John's niece. She has accompanied me to London today while I run some errands. I'm on a case for her mother."

"Oh!" Molly nodded. "So the pasta's for you then, Matilda?"

"Yes, Dr. Hooper. Thank you," Matilda said graciously and Molly walked around the table and gave her the paper bag.

"You're welcome," Molly replied sweetly.

Matilda grinned back at her. _She seems really nice,_ Matilda thought. Carefully, Matilda eased the takeaway box out of the bag and opened it. She grinned. Pesto, her favorite. _Sherlock can really deduce well,_ Matilda thought. Taking out a fork, she began to eat her lunch and listened to Sherlock and Molly talking. However, one line of Molly's stopped Matilda in the middle of chewing.

"Um, Sherlock, I just wanted to say…"

"Yes?"

"I…I just…"

Matilda was confused. Why was Molly stuttering through her sentences when she had been well-articulate just moments before?

"I…"

"Molly," Sherlock said with a hint of an edge in his voice. "Say whatever you needed to say."

"Um…I…"

"Just spit it out, Molly, it's been in your mouth for ages and you really need to get it out."

Matilda was starting to feel sorry for Molly. Why was Sherlock pushing her around like this?

"I just wanted to say, Sherlock…if you need any more favors done, I'm right here…"

"No. I'm all right. Thanks for your consideration. Bye."

And with that, Sherlock shoved his face into his microscope.

Matilda watched, shocked, as Molly tried to say something else, but tears filled the pathologist's eyes and she whirled off, slamming the door behind her.

Matilda's mind flashed back to something Sherlock had told her.

 _"Bart's? The hospital?"_

 _"Yes, I sometimes make use of their labs, their morgue, and if I want a favor, their pathologist."_

So Molly was the "pathologist" part of the statement. And it sure seemed like Sherlock asked a lot of favors from Molly, and that he wasn't really that nice to her. Plus, Sherlock had probably already picked up that Molly had a massive crush on him. Matilda knew then what she had to do.

"Um, Sherlock…that Dr. Hooper…"

"Yes?"

"Where in the hospital does she work?"

"Morgue. Why?"

"Can I visit her?"

* * *

 **TO BE CONTINUED! Mwahahaha!  
Well, that was weird. Anyway, next chapter will probably go up in about a week. In the meantime, please review! Thanks a bunch (of bananas! Bring a banana to a party!) Always, Rielle**


	4. The Master of the Morgue

Matilda was walking down a hallway, looking into each room curiously, trying to figure out which one was the morgue. In one hand she carried a paper bag containing her lunch. With the other she was fingering the paper pinned to her jumper.

"There we go," Sherlock had said, scrawling MATILDA HONEY: VISITOR on a slip of paper and pinning it to her jumper. "The morgue's just down the hallway. You can't miss it, it's got a great big window cut into it. Molly's usually in there. I'll text her if I need you."

Matilda had quickly bidden him farewell and exited the lab with her lunch in hand. As she walked through the hallway, she thought about what she had just seen.

Molly had offered to do Sherlock some favors if he so wished, and Sherlock had shut her down with as much chill as the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. Matilda pursed her lips, thinking. This wasn't right for Molly: she was just asking him if he needed any favors done. It was just that she had more than a friendly interest in Sherlock. Maybe he didn't want that. And maybe that was why he treated her so harshly.

Either that, or he was just a manipulative bastard.

Matilda sighed. This new…friend of hers that she'd only picked up a day ago was certainly eccentric, yes. But manipulative, coercive? Perhaps Sherlock Holmes had a darker side to him than Matilda thought.

Matilda had a dark side, too. Recollections of the pranks and tricks she'd played on her father resurfaced in her mind. Among other things, she'd glued a hat to her father's head and turned said father's hair green. But you were justified in doing so, her mind argued. He was mean, and horrid, and absolutely incorrigible to you. You had a right to prank him.

But it must have hurt, all the time he spent trying to pry his own hat off. It must have been annoying, having people stare at him because his hair was a bright shade of green, Matilda argued back. I'll admit, it was somewhat justified, but it really wasn't nice.

The voice in her head fell silent, and Matilda concentrated her efforts into finding the morgue.

Seconds later, she found it. Looking through the window, she saw a woman with a chestnut-colored ponytail at a sink, her back turned. On a table nearby lay a cadaver, halfway cut open.

Matilda stepped up to the door and saw a paper sign taped to the door.

Please Knock Before Entering. Regards, Dr. Hooper

Matilda knocked four times. Seconds later, a soft voice said, "Come in." Matilda pushed the door open and walked inside.

Molly was standing by the sink, toweling her face with a paper towel. She'd been crying! Matilda realized.

"You all right, Doctor?" she asked softly.

"Just Molly, please…" she replied softly, her face still hidden inside the paper towel. "And I'm fi—actually, I'm not fine at all. Matilda, isn't it?" she asked, looking at Matilda with round, blood-shot eyes.

"Yes, it's Matilda. Mind if I sit?"

"Yes—oh, I mean, no I don't mind. Take a seat if you'd like."

Matilda walked to a spot on a counter near the sink and pulled up a stool. "What's the matter, Molly?" she asked quietly. Easy goes it, she thought to herself. Just like with Miss Honey. Easy, Matilda.

Molly sniffled for a bit and then, wiping her face with a napkin, said, "It's just that…Sherlock's always asking me for favors and then he just…takes advantage of me all the bloody time!" she hissed out the last bit angrily, bringing down her fist on the counter with a bang. Matilda barely flinched, she was accustomed to loud noises and she wasn't too affected by Molly's sudden outburst. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," Molly tried to make amends frantically.

"No, it's quite all right," Matilda replied calmly. "If Sherlock's always taking advantage of you, why are you still letting him do so?"

"Because…because…" Molly faltered. "I can't say."

"Because you have a massive crush on him?" Matilda asked softly, making it sound like a guess.

"Yes, but—hold on a bit, how the bloody—how did you know that?!" Molly's eyes widened in shock. "Are you like Sherlock or something, you can tell someone's whole life story from a single glance?"

"Not really." Matilda shrugged. "It just comes to me. Like…like a breeze or something, and it just…blows into my mind. I guess I'm a bit like Sherlock, just that I think I'm less of a pretentious drama queen."

Molly chuckled. "You're definitely less of a drama queen than him, Matilda."

"Thank you."

"Yes, I do have a massive schoolgirl crush on him…" Molly trailed off, staring into the distance.

"He knows about it," Matilda told her.

"I know."

"Is that why he's always taking advantage of you?"

Molly furrowed her eyebrows. "Maybe. He's always flirting with me just to get to a body or something."

"Then why don't you say no?"

"It's hard, Matilda. I'm used to helping everyone out. When I was a kid, everyone would say Molly, can you help? Molly, can you please give me a hand with this? And now I just can't say no. Especially to Sherlock."

Matilda took a bite of her pasta and thought hard. Swallowing her bite, she turned back to Molly and said, "If he's being a bully to you, you've got the right to say no. You can't just take it on the chin like that. If you just let people step all over you, nothing will change."

Molly tried to say something, but Matilda cut right across. "And that's not right, Molly. You've got to learn to say no. You can't let people use you as a doormat. You're not a doormat. Don't be one."

Molly closed her mouth. Her eyes widened slightly, and choking back a sob, she threw her arms around Matilda.

Awkwardly, Matilda patted her on the back. Molly was sobbing hard into Matilda's shoulder. "Thank…you…"

Matilda replied. "You're welcome…I was only telling the truth. That's what really matters—the truth."

Molly pulled away and dried her eyes. "Right, that was unnecessarily dramatic. But where should I go from here?"

Matilda thought about it for a minute, then gave Molly her reply. "I think it'd be better to see Sherlock as a trusted friend, rather than a boyfriend. And try to meet more people. And most of all, don't be a doormat. Not to anyone. Not at any time. You shall not bow down to anyone. Because you've got to think that you're powerful. That you've got the power to say no, and mean it."

"Okay," Molly said, nodding fervently. "I'll try."

Matilda nodded and went back to her pasta. An awkward silence descended upon the pair, Molly breaking it. "Um…you don't mind being around a body, right? I've got to do this autopsy before the end of my shift."

"That's fine," Matilda shrugged it off. "Bodies don't particularly alarm me."

The two ended up sitting and talking animatedly for fifteen minutes. Matilda told her story, Molly listened and cut in at some parts, and when Matilda took a drink of water ten minutes later, she realized that she'd made a new friend.

Suddenly, Molly's phone buzzed. She picked it up and read the text. "Oh, it's Sherlock. He needs you back in the lab, says he's going to do the test for blood. Don't know what he's talking about, but you'd better go."

"Oh!" Matilda exclaimed, and hopped off her chair. Molly dashed off a reply as Matilda gathered her things.

"I've just told him that you'll be right over. You'd better be quick, he's very impatient."

Matilda gave her a quick hug and ran over to the door.

"And Matilda?"

Matilda turned around.

"Thank you," Molly whispered.

"Anytime," Matilda grinned. "See you soon."

And she ran back to the lab, bag bouncing around and braid slapping against her back.

Matilda wrenched open the door and ran right inside. She dumped her bag on a chair and shoved her empty pasta container in the bin, then ran over to Sherlock. "You called?" she asked, desperately trying to catch her breath.

Sherlock wrenched his face off of his microscope and turned. "Oh. It's you," he said, as if only just realizing that someone had made an entrance. "Yes," he said. "I'm going to test the substance on the knife now, thought you might want to watch."

"I really do," Matilda told him.

"Over here," he signaled and Matilda hauled her stool next to his. "I developed this way back," Sherlock began. "Before I met John. It's a foolproof test that only reacts to hemoglobin—but I already told you that. I've prepared most of it, and now to test the substance. Have you taken intro to chemistry yet, Matilda?"

"No," Matilda replied. "Only intro to biology."

"Well, just remember this for when you take chemistry. Chemical reactions happen when something new has been made. You can tell if a chemical reaction's happened if one of many things occur. For this reaction, I think we should expect a precipitate. That's a solid that can't be changed back to what it originally was. So, yes. Here goes," he finished softly, rolling his sleeves up.

Sherlock picked up the knife as he did so and scraped some of the red off of it and into a beaker in which a seemingly clear liquid was already sitting.

Matilda watched intently. "Wait for it," Sherlock told her.

Suddenly, a reddish-brown hue precipitated and settled to the bottom of the beaker.

Matilda's eyes widened. "A precipitate," she gawked. "That's the reaction!"

"Yup," Sherlock popped his 'p' again and bent over to survey it more closely, taking out his phone and snapping a photo. "And that means…"

"It is blood," whispered Matilda, suddenly feeling a little scared.

"Don't be scared quite yet," Sherlock told her offhandedly, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "Remember, it reacts to hemoglobin, and it's present in the blood of basically all mammals. You never really know, it could be some animal or something."

"True," Matilda conceded, nodding. She couldn't help but think, But what if it's not?

Sherlock hustled out of Bart's, fingers flying as he texted something. The evidence was stashed safely in his coat pockets, and Matilda was half-jogging to keep up with his abnormally long strides and occasionally calling, "Sharp left turn!" if Sherlock didn't look up from his phone quickly enough to see where he was going.

The pair emerged into the sun, and right on cue, a black car pulled up right in front of them. "After you," Sherlock waved at the car. Matilda pulled the door open and clambered inside. Sherlock jumped in after her and closed the door with a snap. He muttered the address to the driver. The driver sniffed and slammed down on the gas, throwing Sherlock and Matilda back into their seats. "Bloody—" Sherlock yelped as his head recoiled into the seat with a soft thump. Matilda hadn't fastened her belt in time, and she found herself thrown against the grumpy consulting detective forcefully, her head banging against his shoulder.

"Ow!" she yelped, crawling back to her seat and fastening her belt. "Sorry!"

"No, it's fine," Sherlock growled, slamming the privacy window shut. "It's my blasted brother, he really needs to run better checks on his drivers."

A quick movement by the privacy window made Matilda look up. A deft, pale hand reached up and flicked open the window. As Matilda's mouth opened in shock, the driver spoke.

"Be careful about what you say in the backseat of my cars…brother dear."

"Well, hello, brother mine," Sherlock grumped back.

"Wait," Matilda piped up, against strong instincts that she should just keep her mouth shut. "Sherlock, our driver is your brother?"

Sherlock slammed the privacy window shut again as the driver began to negotiate his way through the busy streets of London. "Yes, apparently he couldn't resist to interfere in my business. For all intents and purposes, he is the British government."

The driver snapped the window open without looking back. "I only occupy a minor position, Wil—Sherlock," he droned.

"Just take us to the address," Sherlock grumped in annoyance. "There's a six-year-old girl whose mother and uncle are anxiously awaiting our return."

"I just wanted to make sure that you were really on a case and not off to some drug den, brother," the driver told Sherlock. "But that doesn't seem to be, since you've now come to London with a child. Dr. Watson's niece? Tsk, not quite. Her mother's only his cousin."

"I know, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth. Matilda tried to suppress her laughter. His brother's name was Mycroft? Were their parents drunk when they were christened? "But you seem to have forgotten that John is Jennifer Honey's closest living relation…that is near her age. They have a close bond already, John basically seems to consider her as the younger sister he never had."

Matilda huffed a sigh and started rereading her book to the tune of the brothers bickering over her head. However, she couldn't resist not hearing their back-and-forth exchange as she scanned the ivory pages of her book.

"And, brother dear, it was a tad unwise to show up at Scotland Yard in your person and drag along the closest thing John Watson has to a niece. I've already got several texts from Detective Inspector Lestrade asking me if your acquaintance is really a relation to John Watson."

"It was probably Donovan who tried to plant suspicion," Sherlock muttered sourly.

"And it was your course of action to show the whole Yard a girl whose level of intellect is very much like yours at your age and, may I add, who looks absolutely nothing like John Watson."

Matilda jerked up her head momentarily at the mention of her level of intellect, but quickly bowed it again.

"Just take us to the address," Sherlock grumbled angrily.

The ride proceeded in silence. The car turned into the main road, and Matilda decided that she had a couple of errands she would want to run.

"Sherlock, can we stop here?" she asked.

"Why?"

"Library."

"Fine," Sherlock replied, as the car slowed.

Matilda hopped out of the car and Sherlock followed. Just before the door slammed, the driver's voice could be heard as he rolled down the window.

"Expect to hear from me very soon, brother mine," the driver drawled as he rolled his window back up and executed a U-turn.

"Thank God we got out of there," growled Sherlock. "Although quite caring, my brother can sometimes—no, cancel that—most of the time, be a total irritant."

"No offense, but he was a bit creepy," Matilda told Sherlock with a slight hint of petulance in her voice.

"Creepy? That's just the word to describe the 'minor government official' who scours CCTV feed to know your whereabouts, occasionally abducts people he wants to talk with, and can find out the name and occupation of every person in London—no, England—no, the world—with a flick of his hand." Sherlock shook himself a bit and then said, "Library?"

"Oh, yes," Matilda replied, shuddering a bit despite the warm jumper she had on. "This way."

She chose a route she knew quite well and followed it to where she knew the library would be.

A blast of warm air greeted the pair as Sherlock opened the door for Matilda.

"Hi, Mrs. Phelps," she called to the library, seemingly empty to the outside.

A tall, brightly-clothed woman with a tower of brown curls to rival Sherlock's own (Matilda saw Sherlock self-consciously scratch his own head out of the corner of her eye and resisted the urge to giggle) hurried out of the shelves and immediately saw Matilda. "Hello, Matilda!" she called happily. Then she caught sight of Matilda's companion.

"Who's this, Matilda?" she asked, confused as to why Matilda had brought along an older man with her.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock introduced himself, striding over to Mrs. Phelps and offering his hand to shake. Mrs. Phelps shook it cordially, a little shocked. "Consulting detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job. I came to this area to do a little favor to a relation of my flatmate's."

"Welcome, then," Mrs. Phelps said brightly. "Matilda," she said, turning to her again. "What brings you here today?"

"Oh!" Matilda exclaimed, and pulled out a book on teaching oneself the Russian language. "I finished this again. Wanted to brush up on my Russian again, it was getting rather rusty. I just wanted to return it."

"Oh, wonderful," Mrs. Phelps said, as Sherlock made a noise like a cat trying to cough up a hairball next to Matilda and muttered, "So she did teach herself Russian!"

Mrs. Phelps heard. "Oh, yes, she taught herself a lot of things, Mr. Holmes. How to read, how to do basic arithmetic. And in her head, too! I would imagine that her intellect is a miracle. And Matilda here tells the most wonderful stories. In fact, she once told the life story…"

"Of her own teacher," Sherlock said the last words in unison with Mrs. Phelps as she checked in Matilda's book. "I know, her mother told me all about it."

"Matilda is a truly amazing girl," Mrs. Phelps said to Sherlock. "A miracle."

Warmth flooded through Matilda at Mrs. Phelps' praise, and she whispered, "Thank you." Sherlock let one side of his mouth quirk upwards. "Well, I've got to go now, Mrs. Phelps," Matilda said. "I really need to get home."

"Take care, both of you," Mrs. Phelps called affectionately after them as they breezed out the door.

Without thinking, Matilda followed a path that she had frequented nearly every day as a child. It wasn't until Sherlock asked, "Where are we?" that Matilda had stopped to figure out exactly where she was. When she looked up at the nearest building, she suppressed the urge to say a particularly unkind word.

"Oh no, Sherlock, I wasn't thinking!" she exclaimed anxiously. "Sorry!"

"Where are we?" Sherlock repeated confusedly.

Matilda took a deep breath and took in the townhouse in front of her.

"My old house," she spat angrily.

The house stood, abandoned and forgotten after almost a year. "We should probably…" Matilda trailed off, before realizing that Sherlock was bounding up the concrete steps. "What are you doing?" she asked. "We should probably get back, I know what street we should take now."

"Investigating," Sherlock called back.

"No!" Matilda hissed. "For all we know, there could be squatters in there or something!"

Too late. Sherlock had twisted the handle gently with a gloved hand. "It's unlocked," he called. "Someone's unlocked this."

"If we get arrested for illegal trespassing, this is your fault," Matilda grumbled before running after him.

They stood in the foyer, dusty and overridden with grime. The carpet had been half-folded, probably when Matilda's old mum might have tripped over it in her haste to get to the door. All the furniture in the house was intact, if not disheveled. "Be right back," Matilda told Sherlock and ran up the stairs. There was only one place where she would ever dream to look for in this house that brought back memories of loneliness and mistreatment: her room.

She burst into the tiny room. Her bed was still neatly fixed, albeit dusty, as well as the wobbly desk and the shelf. Nothing had been left untouched: her old books were gone, the little bottle of perfume she'd nicked from her mother's vanity (to spray around when the stench of the cheap fish-and-chips from the place down on the corner got too unbearable) was missing, but Matilda looked past all this. She marched over to a spot right underneath the window, and pulled back the old rug, coughing as it stirred up a cloud of dust. When the rug had been pulled back, exposing a loose floorboard, Matilda pried it up with her fingernails and found everything intact. "Yes!" she whispered and picked up a cardboard box, nestled securely in the hollow of the floor.

"Matilda?" Sherlock was yelling from the first floor. "Matilda!"

Matilda took one last look around her room. She had a feeling that she'd never be able to see it again.

"Matilda! Where are you? Come back!" Sherlock yelled. Footsteps pounded up the stairwell.

"Coming!" she yelled back and raced out of the room. As she got to the top of the stairs, she was greeted by a very panicky mop-headed detective. "What's wrong?"

"Someone's living in here!" he whispered hastily. "We've got to go, they might come back soon!"

"What are you waiting for, then?" Matilda hissed and raced past him.

They raced out of the door. "This way!" Matilda called back to Sherlock, as she clasped her cardboard box tightly. "We'll be there in less than three minutes if we run!"

"That's a better route," Sherlock said, catching up to her.

They passed several houses, turned left and raced down the main street, passing shops and the town square. Eventually, Matilda saw two people and a lower speck walking along the sidewalk in the distance: Lavender, Ella, and their dog. "Hi, Lavender, hi Ella!" yelled Matilda. "I'll explain later. Gotta dash!" and breezed past them, Sherlock close at her heels. As she was running, Matilda stashed her cardboard box inside her bag. "Almost there!" she yelled and turned onto the gravel path leading up to the house.

Matilda put on a last burst of speed and bounded onto the front porch. Rummaging through her bag, she found the key and unlocked the door. Sherlock ran onto the porch, his curls a desperate mess and his face less pale than it had been before. "That was great, Matilda," he said happily. "I appreciate a good run."

Matilda nodded, out of breath, and walked through the doorway. "We're back," she called out.

"Kitchen," Matilda's mum called.

Matilda ran to the kitchen. "Hi, Mum!" she called. John was sitting at the nook table, eating a slice of bread smothered with...surprise, jam, and laughing over some pictures strewn about the table. Miss Honey was calmly sipping a mug of steaming tea and leaning against the counter. John picked up one of the images and showed Matilda and Sherlock.

"Oh...my...good...Lord," he choked out in laughter. "This was me!"

Matilda leaned closer to inspect it. A small blond-haired boy with an unfortunate bowl-cut and brilliantly dark blue eyes was solemnly sitting on a couch and fiddling with his tie.

"I must have come here another time other than the one I remember!" he laughed. "I mean, I must not remember this one, but I remember the haircut!"

"It doesn't fit you," Sherlock sniffed.

"Look at this one!" Miss Honey cried, lifting up another photo and showing everyone. An older John Watson sat on a couch with a girl (his sister, Matilda supposed). The two children were being hugged to death by a woman who looked remarkably like Miss Honey, but had different spectacles and a lighter shade of hair.

"It's my mum!" Miss Honey said excitedly.

Matilda laughed aloud and sat down at the table to inspect more photos as Sherlock looked on, quirking a slight smile at the sight of a small John Watson.

Unbeknownst to them all, the artist was prepared to make their next move.  
 _And they knew that the consulting detective was in town._

* * *

 **I AM SO SORRY! My life has been absolutely hectic and I couldn't get this up. However, I have actually mapped out how all of the rest of the chapters will go. I would put the estimate of the number of chapters this fic will ultimately have at...hm...7 to 8? This is not counting the epilogue, however, and I'm going to have quite a lot of fun with that. PLEASE REVIEW AND READ, it makes me happy!**

 **If you've stuck with this fic from the start, I thank you. You're the people that push me to continue!**

 **BTW, some people have expressed concerns about Matilda being too much of a wonder-worker. Don't worry, Molly's the last one she'll help. Anyway, PLEASE REVIEW!**

 **Always, Rielle**


	5. The Artist Moves The Pawn

_Oh, good heavens...I'm so, so sorry. In short, life happened. Not only did I have a major debate tournament to prep for, I also had many different assignments and a whole domestic flight and sightseeing trip to get prepared for. To everyone who did not unfavorite, thank you so much! And to the new people who reviewed, hello and thank you! And now, back to the story!_

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

 **The Artist Moves The Pawn**

 _Flump!_

"Ouch!"

Matilda blinked her eyes open and found herself wrapped in her blankets, crumpled on the floor. Her hip hurt slightly, and Matilda's eyes were starting to adjust to the dim light filtering into the room. _What time is it?!_ she thought confusedly as she slowly began to untangle herself from her cocoon. She struggled to her feet and shoved the blankets back onto her bed.

The alarm clock on the nightstand blinked: 4:15.

"It's too early for this," Matilda grumbled in annoyance. Her nightie swished around her knees as she pattered over to the window. She gently pulled back the curtains and her eyes widened.

 _Dear heavens!_

A hulking figure was standing at the garden shed, sponging something onto its wall. It was too dark to discern any more details, but Matilda's heart began to pound in her chest. She ripped herself away from the curtains and desperately tried to think.

She couldn't turn on any lights, or the person would run away. She considered running to get her mum, but Miss Honey had been up late doing paperwork and Matilda really didn't want to wake her up.

 _Sherlock! Uncle John!_

Matilda ran over to her dresser and pulled out a dark navy sweatshirt. Quickly tugging it over her head and throwing up the hood, she grabbed her trainers and slipped her feet in. Running back to the window, she witnessed the figure, still standing at the shed. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and jerked the curtains shut. Matilda ran out of her room and looked up and down the hallway.

 _Which room's which?_

She knew her mum went to sleep in the master bedroom, leaving her to guess which one of the two guest rooms was belonging to which visitor. She whipped to her right and slowly paced up the hallway, looking underneath each door. A chink of light was flooding out from underneath one of the guest room doors. Matilda supposed that it was Sherlock's room ( _he said he didn't like sleeping anyway,_ she remembered). Reaching up, she gently knocked on the door.

"Sherlock, what do you want?!" an annoyed voice sounded from within.

 _Oops, that's Uncle John!_

"I'm not Sherlock," she whispered into the door.

The door swung open and a very disheveled John Watson greeted Matilda. He was wearing a dressing gown and plain nightclothes and his tan hair was rumpled. "Oh. Matilda, what're you doing? It's four in the morning!"

"There's someone at the shed!" she whispered urgently.

John's eyes widened. "Really? Show me."

They raced back to Matilda's room and peered out of the window. Luckily (well, not really), the figure was still at the shed, now painting something onto its wall.

"Let's get Sherlock and let your mum sleep," John said to Matilda and they stepped out of the room. They went to the other guest room and knocked. No answer came.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," John muttered exasperatedly and knocked again. A loud snore answered them. "He says that he doesn't like sleeping, but obviously he lies, so...yeah?" He knocked briskly on the door again. "When he sleeps, he sleeps like an effing log," he grumbled to Matilda. "Not the best when the smoke alarm's going off. Well," he said, straightening up. "That didn't go over so well. Which leaves this." He turned the handle and forced his way into the room. Matilda stayed outside. "Wake up!" John hissed to Sherlock as Matilda poked her head around the door. A consulting detective-shaped lump stirred and mumbled something incoherent. "Oi, you," John muttered and shook Sherlock forcefully.

"Oh…" Sherlock groaned and sat up. "WhassamatterJohn, why're you shaking me so early in the morning?"

"Sherlock, it's an emergency," John said urgently.

"Who died?" Sherlock sat up straighter, his voice growing a bit clearer. "Muuurrrder?" He yawned and nearly nodded off again.

"No, Sherlock!" John rolled his eyes and shook him forcefully. "The graffiti artist's here!"

"Oh! What're we waiting for then, John?!" Sherlock exclaimed annoyedly. He sprang out of bed wearing a pair of pyjamas underneath a blue dressing gown. "Why haven't we gone yet?" He ran out of the room past Matilda, his curls rumpled. John shot past him like a rocket and turned to Matilda.

"Stay here!" he said.

"Let her come, John," Sherlock called from down the hallway.

"Sherlock!" John reproached. Sherlock whipped around dramatically, the window at the end of the hallway backlighting him. "She's only a child, Sherlock! She's not invincible!"

"But she's got more steel than she lets on, John. She's been in more dangerous situations," Sherlock said. "Come along, Matilda!"

"Oh, for the love of…" John muttered and grabbed Matilda's hand. "No time to waste, let's go!"

They sprinted down the stairs and quietly opened the back door. They paused among the vegetable garden. The figure was still painting something onto the wall, although it looked like they were nearly finished. They crept closer, staying as quiet as possible. They were about eleven yards away from the shed when the figure whipped around and caught sight of them. John grabbed Matilda's arm and threw her behind him, effectively stifling her gasp. Sherlock held up a penlight and the figure desperately covered its face. It was wearing a balaclava, Matilda noticed, and was dressed in all black. However, she couldn't discern whether the figure was male or female.

"What do you want here?" Sherlock commanded, the early morning breeze dramatically whipping at his hair and dressing gown like a scene _right_ out of the movies. "Answer me, now!"

The figure turned and ran. "Get back here, you bloke!" Sherlock yelled. "John, let's go!"

"But Matilda!" John protested. Matilda broke free and ran after Sherlock.

"But...FINE, then!" John yelled annoyedly and raced after Matilda.

Matilda was grateful she'd put on her trainers as they broke through the undergrowth surrounding the property. Her mind raced. _How far can we go before it's too dangerous? Before we need to turn back?_ As she ran after the consulting detective, heart racing almost as quickly as her legs, she could hear John racing along behind her. The early morning breeze stung her face, making her eyes smart. Matilda reached a hand up and quickly wiped the tears out of her eyes. Up ahead, she could see Sherlock still running along, wiry and quick, like some fairy out of Shakespeare. _Maybe like Puck, from_ A Midsummer Night's Dream, her mind whispered, quite irrelevantly.

 _Just keep running,_ Matilda replied and burst on.

Soon, Sherlock slowed to a stop. Matilda felt a painful cramp in her side, but she kept going until she caught up with the consulting detective, who had bent over to inspect something on the ground. From behind her, John increased his speed, crashing through the undergrowth.

Matilda didn't notice the tree root until she tripped right over it. "Oh!" She exclaimed suddenly. Sherlock whipped his head around and managed to catch her before she hit the ground.

"Sorry," she gasped. "The tree got the better of me."

"That's quite all right," Sherlock replied, righting her and turning his gaze back to the ground.

"What about the graffiti artist?" Matilda asked once she had caught her breath.

"I found a footprint," Sherlock explained, shining his penlight on the ground. A large footprint could clearly be visible as he outlined it with the penlight. "Looks like a middle-aged male, exceedingly tall, athletic, stocky, somewhat long strides." He turned his gaze to the surroundings and breathed in quickly. "Oh," he whispered.

John chose that moment to crash into the small clearing. " _God,_ Sherlock," he said unhappily. "You could have gotten into big trouble there."

"Mm, I think this case is bigger trouble than we first thought, John. Look at the footprint," Sherlock called over his shoulder as he bent over to inspect another part of the undergrowth.

"It's over here, Uncle," Matilda motioned to John.

"Good heavens, that's _big,_ " he breathed as he inspected the footprint. "Sherlock, d'you realize what we've all gotten ourselves into?"

" _Big_ trouble, I suppose?" Sherlock called back sarcastically.

"No puns allowed, this is serious," Matilda said.

"I was thinking more of a criminal who knows their way around this area. Quite well, unfortunately. Did you notice the route he was taking? Twisting, turning, trying to throw us all off. And on that note, where are we?"

"We're near the main road," Matilda put in helpfully. "If we walk a couple hundred meters or so back the way we came and turn left, there's a trail to the main road that exits near the library."

"Thanks, Matilda," John said gratefully.

"Aha!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Look what I found!"

He straightened up with a long, stiff black object in his hands.

"Sherlock, we can't see," John pointed out.

"Then come over here," Sherlock replied petulantly.

John and Matilda picked their way over the tree roots towards Sherlock. "What is it?" John asked when they got close.

"A riding crop," Sherlock replied, a glint in his eyes. The weapon shone in his hands underneath Sherlock's penlight.

"Oh, dear God, Sherlock," John sighed. "What is it with you and riding crops? First beating up the corpses at Bart's, then Iren- I mean, the Woman, now this _riding_ crop. They seem to crop up - excuse me - _everywhere_."

"Oh, dear God, Sherlock," Matilda said at almost the same time. "I know that riding crop."

She extended a hand for it, and Sherlock placed it gently in her hand.

"My God, really?" John exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting straight up. "You know that riding crop?"

"Sherlock?" Matilda asked, her eyes traveling up to meet the consulting detective's. Fear clouded her vision. She shoved the heavy riding crop back into his hands. It repulsed her, this weapon.

"Trunchbull," he guessed, anger clouding his many-coloured eyes. He tossed the riding crop to John, who caught it in surprise. Matilda squeaked as Sherlock bent and easily picked her up. "Come along, John," he called over. "Back to the house. We have our artist." He looked down at Matilda. "Show us the way to the main road. I'm sure you're tired from running."

* * *

The sun winked through the kitchen blinds as Matilda blinked her eyes open.

"The princess awakes," chuckled a familiar voice softly.

Matilda jerked her head up too fast and caught sight of the kitchen clock.

"Nine in the morning?!" she gasped in surprise. "I've been asleep that long?"

Then, it hit her. She looked down at the table and started hyperventilating as she noticed the black riding crop laid on it. "Oh my…" she cried, shooting out of her seat and staggering away, backing into a corner.

"I'm sorry," John whispered, shocked. "I didn't realize Sherlock had left it there." He quickly picked up the riding crop gingerly and threw it under the table. Matilda sat back down again at the table. _Mum might even have been hit by that riding crop,_ she thought with a sinking stomach.

"Hrumph?" A very tousled consulting detective jerked his head up from John's shoulder. "Some'un call m'name?"

"Go back to sleep, Sherlock," John told him. The detective immediately folded his arms on the breakfast table and was out like a light. "When he wants to sleep, he _sleeps,_ " John said to Matilda. "He says sleeping's boring. But as I said, he lies."

Matilda stifled a giggle.

Miss Honey stifled a giggle too. Framed in the doorway, she was wearing her formal attire and carrying her briefcase. "I'm so sorry, but I need to go to a meeting at the school today," she sighed in apology. "We need to discuss budgets for the next few terms. I promise I won't be long," she added when she saw Matilda's disappointed expression. "After all, Matilda, I really don't want to come home and find that my house has turned into a burned-out shell thanks to the likes of Sherlock Holmes. John's been telling me all about his antics."

"This _is_ the man who kept a jar of eyeballs in the microwave for an experiment, then yelled at a sergeant to 'put it back' when she took it out," John pointed out.

 _I wonder if that sergeant was the one and only Sally Donovan,_ guessed Matilda. She decided to go for it. "Was her name Sally Donovan?" She asked John.

"How, in God's name, did you know that?" Was his reply.

"Lucky guess," she shrugged and got up to pour herself a glass of water.

"And we all need to talk about this morning," Sherlock added, his voice muffled from being facedown on a table. John jumped in sheer shock.

"Christ, Sherlock, can you at least give us a _warning?_ " He asked indignantly.

Miss Honey held a hand over her mouth and giggled. "I agree," she choked out. "Please do warn us when you want to spontaneously come back from the dead."

Matilda grinned out the window. Despite the tumult of the morning, it did seem like she could have a good day after all.

After preparing some toast for herself and her uncle, Matilda excused herself to go to her room. She still needed to peer into the box that she had retrieved from her old room in the house she and Sherlock had broken into.

Matilda had grabbed the box out of her room already when she came to a realization: what was written on the shed wall? She hadn't seen it that morning.

Softly, Matilda pattered over to her window to read the new message. Her breath caught in her throat.

 _Your little Sherlock Holmes won't find me._

 _If he stays, I'll still be coming!_

This time, four knives were embedded into the wall. Matilda felt sick to her stomach as she turned away from the bedroom window.

* * *

Downstairs, Matilda curled herself into a window seat in the living room with her box and a packet of crisps. Sherlock was busily selecting books out of the many bookshelves crammed into the living room and stacking them by an armchair. John was busily typing away at his laptop in another armchair, occasionally pausing to think before energetically tapping away at the keys once again.

Sighing, Matilda opened the box after plucking a cobweb off of the lid. As she lifted the lid, a small spider scurried out. Catching the spider on a slip of paper, Matilda gently opened the window and slid the spider out, then closed the window again. Turning back to the box, Matilda shuffled through the papers, finding little doodles here and there, even a neatly penned manuscript. Flipping through the manuscript, she quirked a small smile as she found the secret story she'd written about what might have been had Matilda had been in a better family.

Putting everything except the manuscript back into the box and setting the box on the ground, Matilda started flipping to the first page of the manuscript.

As she read through the little tale that she had penned mostly out of grief and anger, she realized that she had never penned down any names for her "family". As she read a passage about "an owl-like Mum who was just as wise as an owl", she suddenly realized something else.

 _Matilda's Mum was a teacher, and she was good at it. In actuality, she wasn't just "good," she was absolutely_ amazing. _No teacher could ever compare to Matilda's Mum._

Matilda's brow furrowed in confusion. Quickly, she flipped through the manuscript for any description of a father. No description showed up. _Alright, that's eliminated. How about any uncles or aunts?_ She kept going until she came to the description of two uncles.

 _He was a genius, and he was absolutely mad. He didn't come around to the house often, because he lived in London with his partner, a doctor._

Matilda sat back. This whole manuscript, in truth, was beginning to sound slightly creepy. It echoed her new life with Miss Honey so much that it seemed like a story verbatim to her life. And now there was a whole other description of two men that Matilda would never have possibly even knew about when she had written the story, both marked down as "uncles".

 _History tends to repeat,_ she recalled.

Technically, only John was her uncle...but what if…

She glanced at John and Sherlock over the manuscript. They were talking animatedly about something or another. Matilda narrowed her eyes. Obviously they were great friends, but something was definitely different about the two men. Perhaps she was wrong, but now they seemed more than friends to her...perhaps the "John-and-Sherlock" equation was something more than she originally thought.

Shaking her head out of any suspicion, she dropped the manuscript back into the box like hot coal and got up to find a book to read.

* * *

" _Christ._ "

"Mum, you never swear."

"Well, I'm doing it now, Matilda... _Christ._ "

"Jennifer."

Sherlock, John, Miss Honey, and Matilda were solemnly sitting around the breakfast nook table, the riding crop sitting like some horrible museum exhibit in the middle of the solemn group. Sherlock, John, and Matilda had just told Miss Honey what had happened that morning and the new message on the shed.

"Look," Miss Honey said, shaking her head. "Sherlock, John...I won't deny that it has been a pleasure to have you both here. But...I'm sorry to say it's not safe anymore. If you just want to go back to London...we won't be offended."

"Back to London?" Sherlock asked. "Because it's too dangerous?" He pulled himself to his full sitting height and stared down at Miss Honey, who never quailed nor flinched under his stormy gaze. "We have a duty to you and Matilda, Jennifer. I'm sure John will agree that we care nothing about the danger. In fact, this new development has brought us closer to solving this case. Leaving now would leave you and Matilda in even greater danger than you are right now. No, I believe that we must stay."

Sherlock nudged John underneath the table with his foot.

"Hm? Oh, yes," John agreed, nodding his head. "Jennifer-" Here his voice faltered, and he cleared his throat to get it back. "I absolutely agree with Sherlock. Don't forget that I've - no, _we've_ been in more dangerous situations than this."

"He invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes, we _kind of_ did that," John said. "And also, Jennifer…" He trailed off. "I know Harry would've liked to meet you. And if she did, I think she'd most certainly agree...you're more of a sister than a cousin now. This is about _family,_ Jennifer. Aunt Agatha," here he motioned to the riding crop, a stark reminder of who they were up against, "deserves to be defeated."

" _She_ _killed my mother,_ " Miss Honey spat angrily, her cerulean eyes flashing dangerously. " _And_ my father. In _cold blood._ I couldn't sleep at night when I was little because I was afraid that she would come in and kill me like she did my parents. And during the day," she almost yelled furiously, leaping to her feet, "she _beat me._ With that _goddamn_ thing!" Miss Honey thrust a shaking finger at the riding crop on the table. "I still have _scars_ because of my aunt! My own _aunt!"_

Miss Honey dropped back into her seat again, shoulders shaking with unshed tears and suppressed sobs. John got up and crossed over to her. Quickly, he folded his arms around her and let her sob unashamedly. Matilda leaned her head on her Mum's shoulder and threw an arm over her other shoulder. Sherlock steepled his fingers and gazed upwards, his mind obviously working hard.

Matilda sensed John's thoughts. _We'll avenge your parents, and your lost childhood._

The riding crop sat on the table.

And the rain began to fall.

* * *

 _We are approaching the conclusion of this story. I'm very sorry I didn't update for a whole month, and I promise the update for the next chapter will come as fast as I can make it._


	6. Playing The Waiting Game

**Chapter Six**

 **Playing The Waiting Game**

"Obviously there's a pattern to the vandalism. Actually, this isn't so much _vandalism_ anymore as it is _leaving a message._ But I digress. Matilda, have you caught it yet?"

Matilda shuffled her papers as she sat cross-legged with Sherlock in front of the fireplace. She was in her nightie and he was in his customary pair of pyjamas and dressing-gown, phone and John's laptop nearby in case research needed to be made.

"Every other day, a message is left," Matilda replied quickly.

"Precisely. I always set stock by the importance of trying to look for a pattern. Things around us usually fall into a pattern."

"I see," Matilda nodded thoughtfully. "Even the passing day's a pattern. Sun rises, sun reaches its peak, sun sets. Every day."

"Precisely," Sherlock complimented again. "The whole Earth runs on a pattern. We just need to find it, wherever it may be. So!" He clapped his hands. "Every other day, a message."

"Don't forget, it conforms to whatever seems to be going on," Matilda reminded.  
"Right. Which means…"

"We're all being watched," Matilda realized.

"Exactly," Sherlock murmured intensely. "But who?"

"Miss Trunchbull?" Matilda guessed, shuddering at the thought of the beefy former headmistress keeping tabs on her niece's daily habits.

"Absolutely _not,_ " Sherlock dismissed. "She has neither the brain nor the cunning to stay hidden for that long. It must be someone else. Someone else must be behind this."

"Someone who she's willing to serve?" Matilda guessed again.

"Good," Sherlock said approvingly. "Now for motive. Any ideas?"

"Money." Matilda ticked off on her finger. "Revenge." She paused. "Pure spite."

To her surprise, Sherlock chuckled genuinely at the last one. "Good," he said again, more thoughtfully. "Money's always a factor. Revenge…"

"Don't forget," Matilda said again. "My mum has the position that Trunchbull deserted."

"Yes, I see."

Suddenly, Matilda realized something big.

"Oh, Sherlock," she breathed out.

"What is it?" Sherlock whipped his head around to her, his curls flying as his icy eyes stared at her.

"If the pattern continues." Matilda couldn't get the words out. "If it continues...we should be expecting a new message a day from now."

"Oh," Sherlock realized, breathing out a long sigh.

"We _can't_ do anything like we did this morning," she continued. "We just _can't._ The message from today was geared straight at you and John. It's a threat. Who knows what we'll encounter if we try to confront Miss Trunchbull?" She swallowed. "You and John are in danger."

Sherlock bit his lip and gazed into the fireplace, retreating into his mind.

Matilda hugged her knees solemnly, chill spreading through her bones even though she was close to the fire.

Suddenly, she felt an arm being placed around her. She let out a startled squeak before she realized that it was Sherlock's arm being draped over her shoulders. Sherlock started slightly. "Was I not supposed to do that?" he asked anxiously.

"It's okay," Matilda said, relaxing. "I was just...startled, is all."

"You were afraid." It was neither a question nor an accusation, just a simple observation.

Matilda nodded, staring into the fire. The fireplace was starting to blur around the edges, and she brought up a hand to swipe away the tears that were beginning to pool. "I don't want anyone to die," she said in a small voice. "Mum's been through so much. If any of us gets…" She couldn't say it. "If anything _happens_ to any of us...I don't know how she's going to take it."

"Matilda, listen to me," Sherlock said firmly. "If we're going to get rid of Trunchbull once and for all, we're going to have to plan. Any ideas?" He was trying to get her mind off of darker things, Matilda knew. And so she submitted.

"Mr. Greg," she suggested.

"Who?" Sherlock asked in confusion.

"Greg," she tried again, equally confused. Hadn't he just taken her to see him the day before? "From the police."

Sherlock still seemed confused, so she tried yet again.

"Mr. Lestrade?"

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Yes, him."

"We could just have him on hand for a day from now. Could you possibly be able to arrange something? You do a lot of things for the force, anyway, so maybe he could...take a holiday and help us?"

"Good idea," Sherlock murmured appraisingly. "Right. I could text him."

"I'd rather that we'd have trained professionals dealing with a monster like Miss Trunchbull," Matilda muttered venomously.

"How would we have them placed?" Sherlock asked, drawing his phone towards him with his other hand while still keeping his other arm over Matilda's shoulders.

"An ambush," she said immediately.

"Really, an ambush?" Sherlock asked skeptically.

"Yes," she replied quickly.

"Who would meet Trunchbull first?" Sherlock asked, then relaxed. "Oh."

"We would," Matilda suggested.

"You were just stammering about danger earlier," Sherlock pointed out, amusement creeping into his tone.

"We've got to do what we have to do," Matilda said softly. "It's what we think before we do pretty much of anything. And I feel that it will feel more…"

"Satisfying?" Sherlock was smiling now, she could tell.

"You've got to admit," she said, twisting around so she could look at her almost-not-quite uncle. "It has a good ring to it."

They sat like that for a little while, until the chill seeped out of Matilda's bones and she could rifle through her papers again.

* * *

It was late when Matilda went to bed that night. She couldn't sleep at first, and therefore resorted to staring at her ceiling for a few minutes before finally rolling over and burying her head in her pillows, trying to calm her racing mind. She and Sherlock had stayed up past her bedtime, discussing the case and possible solutions to the "Trunchbull issue", as Sherlock liked to call it. Eventually, she drifted off to sleep, mind still going like clockwork.

When she opened her eyes the next morning, the sun had already come up fully. Matilda rolled over and took a peek at her clock. 8 AM. So she had slept past her customary 6 AM alarm. Her heart sped up when she realized that in less than 24 hours, she and her family would be confronting Miss Trunchbull once and for all.

Springing out of bed, she vowed to conquer the day.

"Morning, Mum," she greeted cheerfully as she ran into the kitchen. Her mum was reading a newspaper in the golden light spilling from the kitchen window, her blonde hair lit up like sunlight. She looked up and smiled at her in welcome. "Morning, Uncle John, Sherlock," she tacked on quickly as she noticed the two men sitting at the table. John was busily sipping a mug of tea while scrolling through something on his laptop and Sherlock was staring straight ahead, fingers steepled.

John noticed her looking and tried to explain. "He takes trips into his head sometimes."

"Okay," Matilda said, stepping carefully up to the refrigerator, directly at which Sherlock was (unfortunately) staring. She opened it quickly and took out the milk. Opening a cupboard, she took out some bread and jam to take the the breakfast table, and she ate in relative silence, punctuated here and there by hums of assent from Miss Honey as she read her newspaper and the clacking of keys as John occasionally tapped something out on his laptop keyboard. As Matilda took a bite of her slice of bread, a voice made her drop it again.

"Came up with a good plan last night," Sherlock said unexpectedly.

" _Sherlock,_ " John hissed annoyedly, backspacing whatever he was typing. "You've really got to stop doing that."

Matilda picked up her bread and bit into it again.

"What plan, Sherlock?" Miss Honey asked quietly, flicking the page of her newspaper.

"A _plan_ plan," Sherlock explained vaguely, waving his hand. "For a thing."

"And let me guess," Miss Honey continued quietly, "it's not something you can tell anyone else, because it's possibly quite dangerous."

Sherlock, for once, was silent.

Matilda jerked her head up. He looked shocked, as if confronted by something surprising. A long silence descended on the group.

"I'm not stupid, Sherlock," Miss Honey continued. "I know you're planning something. I just... _know_ it. Perhaps it has everything to do with the fact that we should, hypothetically speaking, be expecting another message tomorrow morning. Or perhaps it has nothing to do with it. Either way, Sherlock, I'm not stupid. You can't hide things from me, or Matilda. It's strange. I've been experiencing it for ages now."

Matilda nodded in assent. It was true, Miss Honey _had_ been getting better and better at seeing through things...an art form, Matilda liked to call it: the art of simply _knowing,_ not observing or deducing. None of them knew why, but heaven knew it was surely effective when some unruly student was called to the headmistress's office.

John's mouth was halfway open. Hurriedly, he closed it.

"So you plan to confront my aunt - _Miss Trunchbull,_ " she said forcefully yet just as quietly as before, "tomorrow morning. It is _my_ property. _My family._ Therefore, I shall not permit you to enter into a confrontation unless there is proper law enforcement. I will be liable for anything that goes wrong. If there is proper law enforcement, we will be safe if... _measures_ need to be taken."

Sherlock nodded. "That is quite right," he said quietly, a hint of surprise in his tone. "I take it you have dabbled in law?"

"For a while," Miss Honey replied.

"Don't worry, Jennifer," John said soothingly, lowering his laptop screen so he could look at Miss Honey. "We stay on the side of the law mostly. Don't worry." He shot a look at Sherlock. "Sherlock pretty much works for the law now, anyway."

"As I am forced to _remind_ you, John," Sherlock broke in, a hint of annoyance tracing his tone now. "I do not _work_ for the force. Merely, they come running to the door of our flat whenever something comes up that is out of their mental capacity. That usually means _all the time,_ " Sherlock smirked and folded his hands on the table.

"Show-off," John muttered. "As I was saying," he returned to normal speech. "We are on the side of the law. I assure you, you will not be held liable for anything that is to happen tomorrow morning. We will all be fine," he said calmly. "God willing."

* * *

"Uncle John?"

Matilda poked her head around the doorframe of the living room and saw her uncle, sitting comfortably in an armchair and tapping away at his laptop, twist around to take a look at her. "Ah, hello," he said courteously.

"Are you busy? Can I sit?" she asked politely.

"Absolutely, Matilda," he nodded and Matilda walked briskly into the room and climbed into the armchair adjacent to his. She sat on the overstuffed chair and drew her legs up to her chest.

"How are you?" she asked calmly.

"Mm. Fine, I suppose," John replied, backspacing a bit and thinking. "Just trying to think of a word."

"What kind of word?" Matilda asked.

"Synonym for _horrible,_ " John said thoughtfully. "It doesn't quite match with what I'm trying to write."

"Are you writing a book?" Matilda perked up excitedly. She realized that she had never asked her uncle what he did for a living. "Are you an author?" she guessed.

"Sometimes, I suppose," John replied. "Most of the time, I'm either a general practitioner at a surgery in London. Or Sherlock Holmes's babysitter. Depends."

"Then...do you just write for a hobby?" Matilda asked, narrowing down the list of scenarios in her head.

"Somewhat," John told her vaguely.

"What do you write about?" Matilda asked, intrigued.

"I own a blog," was John's frank reply. "I write about cases Sherlock and I solve. And people occasionally come to seek our help through the blog. Currently…" He trailed off, looking a little embarrassed. "Currently, I'm writing about...well, you and your mother. Completely anonymous, I assure you."

"Oh!" Matilda said. "Nobody's ever written anything about us before."

"Do you take offense with it?" John asked anxiously.

"No, not at all!" Matilda said. "You're a crime writer, aren't you? That's...that's really cool!"

"Thanks," John replied. "Sherlock seems to think I tend to...what did he say?... _romanticize_ our adventures, but when he writes them up, he makes everyone but himself look like idiots." He turned to his laptop. "I'm just levelling the playing field here."

"Can you read me what you've got so far?" Matilda asked softly. "I love stories."

"Oh! Of course," John replied amiably. "Mind you, I haven't proofread it, so there's probably a lot of grammatical errors."

"My English teacher says that if you read something aloud, the more likely you'll be able to catch awkward sentences and grammatical errors," Matilda put in helpfully. "And it works. I've been trying it with my papers for school and it seems to make it easier to catch my mistakes." She paused. "And," she added shyly, "I really do like stories."

John chuckled. "Alright then," he conceded. "Keep in mind, I'm no J.K. Rowling."

"Doesn't matter, Uncle," Matilda put in with a smile.

John smiled back and began reading the blog entry out loud.

"It all started with a brolly. A brolly that Sherlock was whacking against the wall of the flat, which could be heard throughout 221B, including in our landlady's kitchen. Where she was, coincidentally, serving lunch to my cousin and her daughter - who would soon be our next clients…"

* * *

"Where are you going?"

It was afternoon now, and Matilda had just seen Sherlock abandon his cup of tea and swing his coat over his shoulders.

"Out," was his simple reply.

"Can I come?" she asked despite herself.

"Sure," Sherlock replied. "I'm just going to walk around town. Clear my head."

Soon, they found themselves on the gravel path to the main road.

"Any chance of seeing your...friend…with the dog?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly as they walked along the main road towards the town.

"Oh, Lavender?" Matilda asked. "She's off to visit her grandparents," she remembered suddenly.

"Ah," Sherlock said and fell silent for the next few minutes, until they wound up in front of the library again.

"Shall we enter?" he asked Matilda.

"Sure," she replied softly, and he opened the door.

"Hello, Mrs. Phelps," she called into the library.

"Matilda!" Mrs. Phelps hurried out of the shelves and dropped her books with a _bang._

"Mrs. Phelps, what's wrong?" Matilda asked frantically. Mrs. Phelps looked more than shocked as she fanned herself vigorously.

"Oh, Matilda!" Mrs. Phelps cried, running forward and pulling Matilda into a tight hug. "I'm so glad you're alright!" she wailed dramatically.

Matilda awkwardly patted Mrs. Phelps on her back. "What do you mean?"

Suddenly, Mrs. Phelps pulled away and hurried over to her desk. "I found this on my door yesterday morning," she sniffled, trying to wipe away tears.

She took out a small slip of paper, showing it to the two of them.

 _Jennifer Andrea Honey and Matilda Wormwood-Honey_

 _Sherlock Holmes and John Watson_

 _YOU_

Sherlock grabbed the paper out of her hand. "An open threat," he murmured. "Matilda, we need to stay away."

"But -!" Matilda cried desperately.

"The longer we stay here, the more danger we put Mrs. Phelps in," Sherlock announced. He grabbed Matilda's hand. "Goodbye, Mrs. Phelps, we have to go. I promise that we will attempt to secure that any threats against you will be removed."

"But -!"

"Matilda, we _need_ to go, Mrs. Phelps is being _watched_!"

Matilda locked eyes with Sherlock. "At least let me say goodbye!" she yelled at him.

Silence fell as Sherlock released her.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Phelps," Matilda told the librarian.

"Stay safe. Whatever you do, whatever happens…" Mrs. Phelps trailed off. "Stay safe. Don't do anything stupid, just...please."

"I will."

* * *

Matilda lay awake.

She hadn't been able to sleep.

It was much, much too late.

Way past her bedtime, even.

But she couldn't, wouldn't, sleep.

 _The last message is coming soon._

What kind of joy would that bring, when there was the fear of something horrible happening to the people she loved?

She had barely even known Sherlock and John.

But now, they'd come into their lives...as family.

They weren't so distant now that they'd slept in the old house at the edge of town for a few days.

Matilda lay awake.

She couldn't, wouldn't sleep...but soon she gave way. And slept.

Matilda was roused in the early morning by someone shaking her shoulder.

"Matilda. Wake up."

"Uncle John?" she asked blearily, sitting up and swiping at her eyes.

"Sherlock's already gone out there. He sent me to fetch you. Because...he said he would have wanted you to see your idea become reality. We have the Trunchbull by the shed."

"And Mum?"

"Matilda…"

"Tell me," Matilda said with a ferocity that she couldn't understand. "Tell me what my mum did."

"Matilda. She sneaked out first. She's at the shed. Right now."

* * *

 _The final chapter of the current story arc will be published on or before May 2, 2016, along with the epilogue. Thank you for sticking with this story since the start._


	7. The Confrontation

_**Previously...**_

 _Matilda was roused in the early morning by someone shaking her shoulder._

" _Matilda. Wake up."_

" _Uncle John?" she asked blearily, sitting up and swiping at her eyes._

" _Sherlock's already gone out there. He sent me to fetch you. Because...he said he would have wanted you to see your idea become reality. We have the Trunchbull by the shed."_

" _And Mum?"_

" _Matilda…"_

" _Tell me," Matilda said with a ferocity that she couldn't understand. "Tell me what my mum did."_

" _Matilda. She sneaked out first. She's at the shed. Right now."_

* * *

 **Chapter Seven  
** **The Confrontation**

" _Uncle John!_ " Matilda gasped, grabbing her uncle by the shoulders. "I need to _go!_ NOW!"

"All right, Matilda!" John grabbed her by the shoulders and began massaging circles into her back. "Okay, I understand, but -"

"But it's _my mum!_ I can't let anything happen to my _mum_!"

"I know, Matilda!" John said. "Just get out of bed, change your clothes, put on your trainers, and come with me. Personally, I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't refuse, but it's your choice." He let go of Matilda and let her run to throw on a coat and her trainers. "Let's go," she gasped, snatching up a red torch from her nightstand and running out the door. John followed quickly and grabbed her hand.

The sun had not yet risen. It was still quite dark, but Sherlock's figure could easily be seen against the shed. Farther ahead was a thinner, shorter figure with curly hair flapping in the dawn breeze. _Mum!_

Surrounding them were various law enforcement, all with weapons drawn. To her satisfaction, Matilda also saw some of the force covering them from behind the shed. She had pointed this out to Sherlock last-minute the night before with the feeling that Miss Trunchbull would try an escape past the shed just like the other night. Spotlights were already fixed on the shed, apparently already placed.

Sherlock slowly backed out of the circle and turned to John and Matilda as they slowly approached. Matilda's view of the shed was blocked by a single law enforcement officer with curly black hair. _Donovan?_

As if reading her mind, the sergeant barked, "Someone replace me." An officer darted out of the bushes and took Donovan's place as she stepped out of the circle.

"Morning, kid," she told Matilda gruffly with just the slightest hint of respect in her tone. She addressed her all the way. "Pretty good idea you've got here. Sherlock told Greg about it, then he told me. Not too shabby for...what, six? Seven?"

"Yeah," Matilda said in surprise. Nobody had guessed her age correctly before: everyone had assumed she was very young due to her size. "Thanks, Sergeant."

The woman quirked a small smile and gave her a quick nod.

"As you can see," she continued, "we've got our target surrounded, but it's a stalemate. Your mum there's been talking with the target, trying to distract, but we need Greg. And he's held up. So we're all stuck in this circle here."

"I didn't calculate anything about that," Matilda said dejectedly.

"Hey, it's all right, kid," Sergeant Donovan said comfortingly, placing a hand on Matilda's shoulder. "Everything else's gone right to plan. All we've got to do is wait for Greg to apprehend the target."

"Thanks," Matilda said, smiling quietly up at the sergeant.

"You're pretty good, you," Sergeant Donovan said. "I have half a mind to get Greg to hire you right into the force. You'd fit in."

She walked back to the circle and took up a position.

Sherlock and John took places on either side of Matilda and they walked boldly into the circle.

Matilda gasped. First relief coursed through her, then a hot drop of fear rested in her stomach.

Her mother was quietly trying to negotiate with the massive Miss Trunchbull, who was standing back against the shed, hands up, and head hanging downwards. Miss Trunchbull was dressed in her usual insane getup, all down to the breeches and knee-high socks.

Sherlock carefully stepped away from Matilda and John.

"Mum," Matilda whispered.

Miss Honey whipped around, her blue eyes sparkling in the spotlights set up by Scotland Yard.

"I'm sorry," she whispered back. Then stiffening, she turned her head and eyed Sherlock, who had stayed forward of her a few paces.

"It's for the best," she continued sadly, voice barely above a whisper. "I've waited for more than fifteen years for this."

Just as John warned, " _Jennifer!_ " Miss Honey stepped forward quickly.

Matilda gasped as her mum stepped towards the consulting detective barely a meter away from her and dove her hand smoothly in and out of his left pocket, effectively pickpocketing him of whatever he had placed in his pocket. The mere movement of her arm seemed smooth, natural, _practiced,_ as if she was used to pickpocketing someone...perhaps her aunt. When she straightened back up, Sherlock whipped around, thrusting a hand into his pocket.

But too late: Jennifer Andrea Honey, the normally sweet, innocent, and vulnerable schoolteacher-turned-headmistress, steadily whipped a tiny pistol up to point right at Miss Trunchbull.

"Hold fire!" Sergeant Donovan yelled. "Miss Honey, _put the gun down_ and _step away!_ "

"N-no!" Miss Honey called back over her shoulder, blonde hair hanging down her back. "No!" she called out again, voice stronger. "I _must_ say something to this woman. She has _tortured_ me, whipped me into submission, and I _shall not yield._ It must be done. Just hold your fire! I need to speak with her, and she _must not_ run away like the coward that she is."

" _Put the gun down!_ " Donovan insisted.

"No!" Miss Honey choked again.

" _Mum,_ " Matilda gasped out.

"I must be the stronger person this time!" Miss Honey called out. "I am not the small girl who cowered in your shadow and waited for the crack of the riding crop and the pain against my back," she directed towards Miss Trunchbull. Then, directing back to the officers, she continued, "I am a _grown, responsible_ woman and I can handle this. Just keep Agatha Trunchbull from escaping and I'll say what I need to say!"

Donovan nodded sharply.

Just then, a siren broke out at the gate to the gravel drive. _Probably Inspector Lestrade!_ Matilda thought in utter relief. "I'll go," Matilda volunteered immediately.

"Appreciate it, kid, but no," Donovan said. "You. Officer Williams." she pointed at an auburn-haired officer standing in the lights. "Go check on the gate. Someone take her place." The officer nodded, "Sure, Sergeant," and dashed off to check on the gate. "Someone go with her," Donovan called out, walking over to take Officer Williams's place. "Officer de la Cruz, go."

Another officer nodded over to Donovan and dashed after the first one.

There was a space in the circle now. "Spread," Donovan commanded, and the officers spread themselves out more thinly around the circle. The Trunchbull looked scared, wide-eyed, pleading...but her eyes also darted about, searching for an exit through the ring of police.

Miss Honey took a deep, wavering breath.

"Here we are, now," she said quietly. "You and I. The torturer and the tortured, the victim and the victimizer. Granted, it's a rather stereotypical spot to be in, with all the law enforcement, but here we are, indeed."

Matilda twisted around and saw Lestrade quietly creeping towards the group, officers following him nervously. Sherlock saw Lestrade as well and nodded a salutations to him.

"I've been waiting for this for most of my life," Miss Honey announced. "Ever since you came up the stairs and opened my door and told me the _four words that you knew would destroy my every happiness._ Ever since you woke me up and told me that my father committed suicide. Because guess what?" The rustling of the police officers around them replied to Miss Honey. " _I never believed you._ "

Miss Trunchbull actually looked quite shocked at this, mouth gaping open.

"You probably assumed that I, in my childhood innocence and gullibility, would just take whatever you said and shove it down my own throat. Well, you should have learned your lesson there, as you did when you deserted your post because of my _daughter_ and her classmates, the class I was teaching when you locked them all in torture machines to quiet their protests." She sounded stronger now, clearer, buying from her inner source of courage.

"And this lesson that you should have learned fifteen years ago can be summarized in precisely seven words: _Never underestimate the power of a child._ "

Silence fell.

"But I digress," Miss Honey continued. "I never believed that my father committed suicide in the kitchen...shot himself in the head. He couldn't...when he had told me that he had _me_ to live for, when he promised me that he would take me someplace where we could both live out our lives in peace, away from _you._ " She spat out the last word as if Miss Trunchbull didn't even deserve the title. "But you took that away from me. Because you _murdered my father in cold blood._ "

Lestrade looked like he was about to say something, but Sherlock quieted him with a motion of his hand.

"You murdered my mother _and_ my father! You murdered my mother out of the jealousy of a life you could never lead by deliberately making her perform a stunt that you had designed, did you not? A stunt that was basically impossible by _simple physics_! And you murdered my father to keep him quiet and keep me just docilely letting you hurt me EVERY SINGLE DAY." Miss Honey's voice grew louder.

"But the final thing that will seal your fate, _Agatha?_ " she asked her menacingly. " _This._ "

She levelled the pistol back at Miss Trunchbull and used her other hand to steady it, as Matilda watched.

 _She must have nicked it from somewhere in Miss Trunchbull's old room,_ Matilda guessed.

"This, the pistol that you used to shoot my father," Miss Honey's voice quivered in quiet triumph. "This, the pistol that Sherlock Holmes found while he was poking around my room yesterday...while I was out of the house." She turned to Sherlock. "And by the way, Sherlock, it's always best to check the dust patterns. You can put _anything_ back except dust. Keep that in mind when you want to nick anything from anyone." Lestrade had a slight bit of approval in his eyes and slight respect written all over his face now, mouth open like a goldfish.

She turned back to Miss Trunchbull. "I found the bullet you shot clean through my father's head," she continued, still quietly triumphant in her demeanor. "It was lying somewhere in the kitchen that only a small, wiry person could find it. And you know the best candidate for that? Me. Small and wiry from the malnourishment of childhood - from the malnutrition that no one but _you_ caused. I found it when I was cleaning out the kitchen after you deserted the house. A fourteen-odd year old bullet, still with some blood on it but in perfect condition. You probably thought it was embedded in my father's head, didn't you? Well, it _wasn't._ If the bullet can be tested, it can be shown that it was fired from _this,_ " she waved the pistol in the air, "type of pistol. And the most incriminating evidence? Your initials, carved right into the wood of the handle. _AST._ Agatha Sophia Trunchbull, am I correct?"

Miss Trunchbull looked like her world had just collapsed around her.

"In any case," Miss Honey shrugged, "it's all a cycle. And you'll be proven the murderer of Magnus Honey either way."

She leveled the pistol back at Miss Trunchbull and steadied it with her other hand again. "I could just...easily... _pull the trigger,_ " she continued dangerously, balancing a pale finger on the trigger and aiming straight for Miss Trunchbull's heart.

"Mum, no!" Matilda whispered in shock.

"The pistol isn't loaded," Sherlock whispered to Matilda softly, so only she could hear him, and she relaxed.

"But I'm not you," Miss Honey said quietly, lowering the pistol with trembling hands. "I am no murderer. _You are._ I can only wait for you to be charged in due process of law, I cannot take it into my own hands. I am not a murderer like you. And I am most certainly not your niece, not anymore, not by a long shot." She turned around and tossed the pistol to Lestrade calmly, as if nothing had just happened, and Matilda couldn't help but admire her mum's newly-found confidence. "Go ahead and test that," she said quietly as Lestrade caught the pistol with a slightly-awed nod. "And this too," she added and tossed over a plastic bag with a bullet inside.

"I will leave you alone now," Miss Honey said to the Trunchbull evenly. "In exchange, _leave my family alone._ Call off whoever you're serving, tell them you've quit. Do not try to harm a hair of any of my family's head. Not John. Not Sherlock, and most certainly _not my daughter, you bitch._ Stay away from us, I'll stay away from you and let you go through the due process of law."

Miss Honey stepped away. "There, I've said it. It's done."

Some of the officers clapped and even whistled, not deserting their posts but still cheering Miss Honey on. Donovan, Lestrade, Sherlock, and John all looked extremely impressed. Matilda couldn't help but feel proud of her mum. A rush of emotion filled her chest - pride, happiness, love, joy at the final defeat of the headmistress of terror.

But something wasn't right. Something didn't _seem…_

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed two things: a small movement in the trees above, and Miss Trunchbull making the tiniest of movements towards John, who had a hand on Miss Honey's shoulder.

"Sherlock?" she whispered to the consulting detective in the midst of all the noise, tugging on his coat sleeve. "Sherlock."

"Matilda?" he asked quietly so only she and Lestrade could hear. "What is it?"

"Something's not right," she whispered quietly. "I don't know exactly -"

 _BANG!_

A gunshot from above quieted everyone's chatter, and shouts pierced the air.

"GET DOWN!" John and Lestrade yelled at the same time. John grabbed Miss Honey, stifling her gasp as they both made it to the ground in a heap.

Sherlock grabbed Matilda close and shielded her with his own body as they fell to the ground. Matilda buried her head inside the detective's coat, which smelled faintly of gunpowder and cologne and violin wood. "Oh, God," she whimpered, heart racing out of control. "Sherlock, what's happening?"

"Shh," he replied. "I don't know what's happening, either...and I _hate_ not knowing!"

She poked her head out a little to peer at the surroundings. All the officers had pointed their weapons right up to the trees, scanning for anyone trying to fire another shot. Matilda noticed a blonde, curly head racing into the forest silently, but nobody else seemed to see.

And the Trunchbull…

"Sherlock!" she whispered again.

"What is it?"

"The Trunchbull's _dead._ It was only one shot because the... _sniper_...just wanted to kill...her."

Sherlock rolled over and raced over to the shed, a host of officers following on his heels.

Miss Honey rushed over to Matilda, who was still sitting on the ground, and scooped her up. "Oh, God, Matilda, are you alright?"

"Mum," Matilda cried out, feeling tears pool in her eyelids as she saw the sun, rising steadily and glowing gold in the early morning light, bringing in the dawn of a new era. One with a strong and brave army doctor uncle and a mad genius with a curly mop of hair accepted into the fold of _family._ An era full of crime, danger, companionship, family, love.

"Oh, _Mum._ "

* * *

The kettle whistled, high and thready in the air.

Matilda puckered her lips and tried to imitate it.

"Nope, Matilda," Sherlock said calmly, taking the kettle off. "Too high." He whistled a perfect representation of the kettle's whistle, a single, quavering note. "More of a D than a G, if you ask me."

"If you're not too busy auditioning for the tea kettle musical, we'd appreciate a cuppa right now," Lestrade piped up from his chair, gathering a few laughs from the surrounding officers.

It seemed as if the whole police force had assembled in the kitchen, milling about, talking quietly, and occupying all the chairs Matilda could find from all throughout the house. Lestrade had gotten the statements from Sherlock, John, Miss Honey, and Matilda, and now everyone was comfortably situated in the kitchen while, behind the closed curtains of the kitchen window, the shed was cordoned off and the body of Agatha Trunchbull removed.

"Coming right up," Matilda said cheerily. Granted, a bit too cheery for someone who had just witnessed a rather instant and violent death, but in truth, she felt as if a giant weight had been lifted off her shoulders and she could _live_ again.

"Ta," John said gratefully from his spot in the corner with Lestrade as he accepted a steaming cup of tea. Lestrade nodded a 'thank you' as well from his chair. Miss Honey was quietly talking with Lestrade. Donovan was outside overseeing the process of the removal of the Trunchbull. The other officers were milling about the kitchen talking to each other companionably.

Occasionally, Matilda felt a hand on her shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze and a compliment of her plan for the arrest. She would nod and smile quietly up at whoever it was, acknowledging their praise.

But there was still one thing she wanted to clear up, something that she hadn't told _anyone_ about (barring Sherlock) and something she didn't want to tell anyone else…

It would have to wait for night.

Matilda parked herself by Lestrade a bit shyly. She admired the man, she had to admit. He looked like he'd been through quite a lot and he managed his group of police officers well.

The DI finished off his conversation with Miss Honey and turned to Matilda.

"Matilda, right?" he asked, extending a hand for her to shake as Miss Honey got up and headed for the cupboard, probably to set out more biscuits. "From when Sherlock brought you to the Yard?"

"Yes," she replied, taking his hand and shaking it cordially. "How do you do?"

"Fine, I guess," Lestrade shrugged. "I'm glad both of the cases here have been closed, and that Sherlock hasn't caused too much of an uproar here. How about you?"

"I'm alright," Matilda said.

"So, how's school?"

"Oh, it's _wonderful._ " Matilda said happily. "Ever since Mum became headmistress, I was able to get promoted to a much higher grade with the eleven-year-olds. I mean, I still spend time with my friends from kindergarten, really, but I have friends in the higher grade too. I'm doing geometry right now, but I've also been doing biology and lots of history and English too."

She heard a small choke of a laugh from Sherlock nearby as Lestrade's eyes bugged out in pure shock.

"Oh, well…" He cleared his throat, obviously trying to get his composure back. "Well, that's - that's really great. Um, what do you want to be when you grow up?" He immediately looked like he wanted to take it back, but Matilda answered after a bit.

"An author, maybe...or a scientist, or a doctor."

She twisted around and saw Sherlock looking at her, an equal measure of pride and amusement lighting up his eyes.

"Or a detective, if I wanted to be."

* * *

Matilda's heart pattered in her chest as she lay awake in bed that night. She was extremely tired from the events of the day, but she dared not close her eyes and give way to sleep. They had all gratefully bid farewell to Scotland Yard hours before, and Sherlock and John had decided to stay for a day or two more, just because.

But as for Matilda herself? She had a sniper to find.

Matilda had to trust her intuition. For all she knew, the sniper was working with the Trunchbull and decided that they didn't need her anymore. But Matilda had a gut feeling that there was something different.

She replayed the standoff at the shed through her mind for the millionth time. In it, as Miss Honey stepped away and the force began to applaud and John clapped a hand onto Miss Honey's shoulder proudly (face clearly exclaiming, _Here's my sister! Look at how amazing she is!_ even though Miss Honey wasn't really his sister), the Trunchbull took a single step towards John.

And then the shot had rang out and everyone had dived to the floor.

Matilda had a feeling that the sniper was protecting them. For what reason, she didn't quite know.

She also had a feeling that the sniper was still somewhere on the property.

She had to trust her feelings.

For the second time that day, she quietly rose from her bed in her nightie. This time, however, she changed her clothes from her pale nightie into a darker set of clothes and her black trainers, perfect for sneaking out. Matilda threw up the hood of her jacket to cast a shadow over her face and slid her torch into the jacket pocket.

Before going out her door, she paused. And then looked back.

There was something she was missing.

Silently, she crossed the room to the box she had collected from her old room a few days before. Digging into it quietly, her fingers closed around a rather bulky, hefty metal object. The pocketknife she'd pickpocketed off of her former brother lay heavy in her hand.

She slipped it into her other jacket pocket and tiptoed out the door, closing it softly behind her.

The upstairs hallway was dark: everyone, even Sherlock himself, had fallen asleep.

Downstairs, she approached the kitchen door and opened it softly. Thankfully, it did not squeak.

Matilda knew the undeveloped area behind the shed very well - she often explored it during the summer. Therefore, she knew all the places to hide. And she had narrowed the list down to the most plausible for a sniper, an assassin that was most likely a grown woman, from the small glimpse of blonde curls that she had seen running away from the shed.

Traipsing through the leaves silently and nervously, she approached the spot: a hollow in a tree where she liked to read. She paused underneath it and attempted the most daring thing she'd ever done in her life.

"You can come out," she whispered into the tree. "I promise I won't do anything. I'm only a kid, and I know what you did for my uncles and my mum and me. All I want to do is thank you, really."

Silence responded, and Matilda's heart fell. Perhaps the assassin had already vacated the premises, the town even.

"Hello?" she called out desperately.

"Who goes there?" a distinctly female voice called out quietly.

"I was the girl by the shed this morning, the one in the nightie and with the red torch."

She stepped back as a lithe dark figure slid down the tree. When it straightened up, Matilda was confronted with a light-haired woman, features indistinct even by the light of the moon.

"What do you want?" she asked. Her voice was light and lyrical, but Matilda knew that that voice belonged to a person who had gone through more than Matilda could ever imagine. It also didn't sound familiar...it was slightly different in terms of accents. Perhaps she came from somewhere else - maybe Scotland?

"Would you be so courteous as to allow me to use my torch?" Matilda asked cautiously. "I don't know who you are really."

"Let it stay that way, child," the woman said gently. "But you can turn it on for a little while. I'd like to know who you are."

Matilda fumbled with the torch and switched it on momentarily, seeing the light illuminate a rather pretty woman with blue eyes reminiscent of Miss Honey's, but filled with lighter specks. Then, as a courtesy to the woman, Matilda switched off the torch and pocketed it.

"I'm Matilda Honey. I'm six. Who are you?"

"I can't tell you who I was, but I will tell you who I wish to be." The woman stuck out a pale hand. "Mary Morstan."

Matilda took it and shook. "It won't do to stand out here talking," she said quietly. "Would you like to come to the house? There is food."

Mary stood there for awhile, examining Matilda closely. Finally, she let out a gusty sigh. "Alright, I would like to. I trust you. Back in a mo."

She swiftly climbed the tree, grabbed a few things out of the hollow, and returned. "Lead the way, Matilda."

Silently they let themselves into the great big old house. Matilda led the way to the living room. "I'll be back with some food," she whispered. Mary nodded slightly and Matilda dashed off on her toes, grabbed a couple of Jammie Dodgers from the kitchen, and raced back to the living room. On her way back, she listened for any signs of movement from the top floors and heard none before proceeding to the living room.

"Your shot from earlier depleted most of our supplies, but I found these," Matilda told the sniper sitting cross-legged like a small child on the floor by the fireplace.

"Thank you," Mary replied shortly and began chewing.

Matilda sat across from her, feeling distinctly awkward. _Who talks to assassins anyway? What kind of conversation would an assassin and a schoolgirl have? "Oh, I had a really good day today." "Oh, me too! What happened?" "I got a perfect score on my geometry quiz!" "Oh really? Well I killed a few people today!" "Oh how wonderful!"_

Matilda cleared her throat. "Why did you help us?"

Mary paused. "My brother, from who I was _before_ Mary."

"Oh?"  
"John Hamish Watson…there's a whole file on him, but I won't go into that...he saved my brother's life in Afghanistan. If it weren't for him, my brother would have died. Of course, my brother isn't around anymore...he was abducted by an enemy of mine and I never saw him again. But he always described John Watson to me. He told me to...if I ever...well." She cleared her throat quietly. "He asked me, that if John Watson's path happened to cross mine...to do him a good turn. Sort of...pay him back for his trouble. Watson never knew my brother very well, but he saved his life anyway."

Matilda looked at her kindly.

"That time this morning was the first time in...years that I've held a gun," Mary said very softly. "Oh God, I don't know why I'm telling this to you," she looked up with a panic in her eyes.

"I promise I won't ever tell a soul," Matilda swore solemnly. "Count on it."

"I'm an assassin," Mary said plaintively, drawing her knees to her chest. "I've killed so many people, I just can't count anymore. But...I never, ever, felt so _good_ than when I killed that woman this morning. I could tell that she was going to do something, _something_ to Watson. And so I shot her."

"Precisely through the forehead," Matilda noted.

"I hope that will be the last time I hold a gun," Mary said softly. "I want to be _normal_ for once. I just want to escape."

"I know a librarian in town in need of an assistant," Matilda said quietly. "And the local school needs a nurse. You can stay here, find a place. Be normal for once. Never have to kill another person again."

Suddenly, Mary stiffened. "Someone's coming."

Matilda sprang to her feet and threw open the bay window. Luckily, it didn't creak or squeak.

Mary grabbed up her things and leapt to the bay window. But before springing out, she turned and glanced at Matilda.

"Thank you," she mouthed, before slipping out the window and melting into the darkness.

"Goodbye, Mary," Matilda whispered into the night breeze. "Good luck."

She closed the window, rearranged the rug, gathered up the Jammie Dodgers, and went to sit in the kitchen. When Sherlock or whoever was coming at this hour came down, she'd just tell them she got hungry and couldn't sleep.

She didn't need to tell them that she'd met an assassin.

* * *

 _EPILOGUE IS NEXT! Although I'm toying with the idea of actually writing up John's notes on the case just for a little end treat. Let me know what you think of that! For now, I'll be in my little hobbit-hole, awaiting your thoughts on this long, very explosive chapter. Always, Rielle_


	8. What Happened Afterwards: I

**_WHAT HAPPENED AFTERWARDS?_**

 **I: CONSULTING DETECTIVE... _JUNIOR_**

 _A few months later..._

"Come _on!_ Hurry up or I'll leave you in the mummy exhibit!"

Ms. Fairbairns was a joking-around sort of person, but as the stragglers of her history and biology classes quickly caught up with her, Matilda filed away the observation that they took her rather seriously. Nobody seemed to want to be stuck in a room full of old cadavers.

 _Sherlock would have wanted to,_ she thought with a pang. She rather missed her two not-quite uncles, but she was excited: after the field trip she was on that day, it had been arranged that John and Sherlock would pick her up for a day in London.

Matilda's hometown had buzzed about the arrival of the famous consulting detective and army doctor for weeks, and she had been barreled over by a barrage of questions about the experience from many of the older students who had been following John's blog constantly. For safety reasons, she left out that the army doctor was a relation of her mum's, but the students had ended up deducing the fact from John's post. Consequently, Miss Honey had become, if at all possible, even more of a public figure than before.

Matilda and her classmates followed Ms. Fairbairns into the next exhibit, Matilda trailing at the back of the line with Hortensia, one of her acquaintances.

Suddenly, she heard a person quietly clearing their throat behind her.

Matilda turned and inaudibly gasped.

"Matilda Jane Honey, formerly Matilda Wormwood. Six years old. Biological parents abandoned you in their flight to Spain, you were immediately adopted by Jennifer Andrea Honey. Unusually gifted." The tall, dangerous man that exuded _confidence_ and _power_ directly in front of her (all while nonchalantly spinning a long cane-handled umbrella in circles) lingered on the last two words. " _Unusually._ Unusually enough for my dear brother to take a liking to you."

"You're Sherlock's brother," Matilda said boldly.

"Silence," the man commanded sternly. The sheer power behind his tone forced Matilda to take a single step backwards against her will. "This world has too many ears."

Matilda nodded, struck dumb by a mixture of fear and terror.

"Follow my instructions to the letter," the man said haughtily, letting his umbrella rest on the floor and leaning on it. "I will not repeat them. Hopefully you're not stupid enough to forget it. You certainly didn't seem like a goldfish to my brother, anyway."

Matilda nodded again to show her understanding.

"To your left, behind the display, there is an emergency exit. If you opened it now, what would happen, Matilda?"

Matilda replied shortly, "An alarm will sound, security personnel would immediately arrive, and I would be punished by the authorities."

"Quite. Going through all possible outcomes is a valuable skill to have, especially in Sherlock's line of profession. Perhaps that is a reason Sherlock seems to like you: you show potential for the type of mental activity he tends to undertake. But I digress: back to the plan. Once I have exited this room, wait ten seconds before pushing the door open. The alarm will not sound, the security personnel will not arrive, and you will not be punished by any authorities. Clear?"

Matilda nodded.

"Next. There will be an unmarked black car waiting outside. Get in it. Further instructions will be given to you there. Clear?"

"Yes," Matilda nodded sharply.

"Good. Now, please don't question any of my instructions. Firstly, it wastes time, and secondly, I fully assure you that you can trust me and my intuition. Is there anything I need to make clear?"

"My classmates," Matilda realized. "What'll they think if I'm not there?"

"Why, the simple fact that your army-doctor uncle and famous consulting detective friend have decided to use their resources to pick you up early. Do not worry about that, or place importance by their unused intellects. Three _very_ important lives could possibly be at stake if the cards play correctly. Do not tarry."

Matilda nodded solemnly, wondering what it could all mean.

"I am leaving this room. Remember my instructions."

The man swung his umbrella around and haughtily walked out of the room, leaving a very confused and slightly afraid Matilda in his wake. Jolting herself out of her reverie, she began a silent count in her head.

 _One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

Matilda negotiated her way carefully behind the display and was confronted with an emergency exit. She placed her fingertips on the handle.

 _Six. Seven. Eight. Nine._

Matilda swallowed nervously.

 _Ten._

 _GO._

She pushed open the door. To her utter relief, nothing happened. Closing it softly behind her, she rushed out through the narrow hallway and into a back alleyway behind the museum. As she had been told, a black car stood by the kerb. Matilda breathed a sigh of relief.

The back passenger-side door opened and a slim woman slid out. Matilda stepped back nervously, but the sharply-dressed _government PA_ only moved to the other door and opened it.

"C'mon, it's okay," the woman called out, surprisingly gentle for her crisp exterior. "And we need to hurry."

Matilda half-ran over to the car. "Thanks," she said to the woman before sliding into the car. The PA smiled amiably before shutting the door and moving back to her seat on the other side. Matilda removed her bag and hugged her knees. Even with her uniform, she still felt rather cold, especially around her neck with her hair twisted into a small knot at the nape.

"Right, you're Matilda, aren't you?" the PA asked.

"Yes," she replied shortly.

"So I've got to brief you on what you've got to do," the PA said from next to her, not looking up from her BlackBerry as the car began to move. "You will be going to a slightly familiar location that, I am told, you will know by name: St. Bartholomew's Hospital. On the way, you will be dropped off at a staged car accident near the hospital. You're small, so what you'll have to do shouldn't be too much of a problem. Slip into the ambulance and you'll be briefed on what to do next."

"Why would I have to do this?" Matilda wondered, and then suddenly realized.

"We-ell," the PA said shortly, tapping her BlackBerry on her chin, "because currently, Bart's is being watched by some rather...unsavoury characters. An unmarked black car pulling up to the main entrance sparks curiosity. We need less curiosity in that area than there already is," she said, corroborating Matilda's theory.  
"Got it," Matilda said. "Is that all?"

"That's all you'll get from me," the PA said mysteriously and tapped away at her phone once more.

The rest of the journey proceeded in silence as questions tumbled over and over in Matilda's mind. Who were the three people whose lives Sherlock's brother had mentioned were at risk? Why was she being taken to Bart's? And most importantly, _where were Uncle John and Sherlock?_

The car rolled to a stop near a car crash scene. Matilda looked carefully at the scene and realized that, if she looked closely enough, she could easily tell that the whole scene was faked. The different helpers and paramedics all looked a little blank-faced, almost bored.

"This is where you leave. No time to waste," the PA said kindly, turning to Matilda. "They'll brief you."

"Thanks," Matilda said politely.

"And Matilda?" the PA told her.

"Hmm?"

"It was a pleasure to meet you."

* * *

Matilda cautiously stepped out of the car, shut the door behind her, and heard the car drive away quickly.

Swallowing, she continued to the crash scene carefully, avoiding a patch of broken glass with her feet. She clutched her small bag closer to her and approached the ambulance idling by the kerb.

"You're Matilda, aren't you," one of the paramedics asked - well, _stated_ was a more accurate term.

"Um, yes," Matilda replied, furrowing her eyebrows. The auburn-haired paramedic looked very familiar to her...then it clicked.

"Officer Williams," she nodded respectfully.

"That's not my _real_ name, but that's alright," she said, extending a hand and tossing her hair back behind her shoulders. "I'm Hazel."

"Pleased to meet you," Matilda said promptly and took the paramedic's hand to climb on board.

"Well, Mr. Holmes - the older one, I mean, told me to brief you. He told me to tell it to you straight. Executive orders, said you could stand it. You good with that?"

"Er, alright," Matilda consented quietly. The doors to the ambulance slammed shut, and Matilda took the time before the vehicle began to move to look around and examine her surroundings. More paramedics were sitting in the ambulance, quietly talking. A dummy lay on the stretcher, swathed with sheets.

"The reason this staged crash is here is so we can get personnel and actors to Bart's Hospital under a cover," Hazel explained quickly as the driver put on sirens and the vehicle began to speed up.

"You need all these people because _something_ is going to happen. _Something_ is going to happen and it's so covert that you can't transport the people you need directly," Matilda realized, putting the pieces together at last in her head. _Actors,_ she remembered.

"You're going to fake something big. Something bigger than a simple car crash."

The ambulance fell silent, and Matilda suddenly realized the magnitude of her own statement.

"I've been told you were going to say something along that vein," Hazel said, shaking her head in wonder. "I'm used to having either Holmes brother do that to us, but I've never seen anyone else do it like they do."

Nods all around corroborated Hazel's statement.

"We're getting close to Bart's," a paramedic called out.

"Right," Hazel began quickly. "To get inside Bart's uninterrupted, you will replace the dummy on the stretcher. Once we're all inside, you'll be briefed on what will happen next."

One of the assistants pulled out the dummy on the stretcher.

"Take off your bag and hat," they ordered Matilda urgently.

She took off her good uniform cap and stuffed it in her bag. Removing her bag, she hid it in the stretcher before letting Hazel gently lift her into the stretcher.

"Right, when we stop, just close your eyes and don't move, and we'll do the rest," she told her.

Finally, the ambulance slowed to a stop.

"Good luck, Matilda," Hazel whispered and Matilda shut her eyes tightly and tried her best not to move too much as they wheeled the stretcher out of the ambulance. It was much smoother than Matilda expected, and she tried her best not to make a comment about it as they went into the hospital.

A familiar woman's voice called out, "Clear," and Matilda sat up.

Molly stood, more confident than the last time Matilda had seen her, at the head of the group milling around by the ER entrance. She gave Matilda a brisk, sharp nod.

"Right, that was the last group of Homeless Network and Holmes' employees participating in this operation. If you notice anyone who isn't present, we're going to need to ring for replacements. Speak now or forever hold your peace."

Nobody spoke up. Matilda clambered off of the stretcher and retrieved her bag. Opening it, she pulled out her uniform cap and put it back on sharply.

"Everyone to your places, then. If you don't have earpieces, report to Constance over at the counter. Remember, listen very carefully: if you miss something important, this whole operation will go to waste. Lives are at stake here. Get moving," Molly called out authoritatively. Matilda rather enjoyed how the usually-timid pathologist could get control of the room in the most dire of situations.

Everyone scattered. Molly walked over to Matilda and immediately wiped at her forehead.

"I never saw you had a knack for leadership," Matilda commented.

"Useful when you're working in a hospital," Molly acknowledged with a small smile. She leaned down and gave Matilda a gentle hug. "What's new?"

"Oh, nothing much," Matilda replied with an easy shrug.

"Okay, we might not have enough time, so I'm just going to tell you what's happening." When Molly saw Matilda's expression, she added hastily, "And no, I'm not going to give you a list of instructions and then tell you that someone else will brief you. I'm the last step."

Matilda nodded in utter relief.

"Right. As you've probably suspected, we're going to prepare to possibly fake something big. Any guesses?"  
"Someone's death," Matilda guessed right off the bat. To her surprise, she was correct, as she saw in Molly's solemn nod. "But who?"

"Sherlock," Molly whispered softly. "We're trying to save his life, but the thing is we might have to fake his death to do so. We're helping Sherlock die. But not literally, I meant - to the world he'll seem like he's dead."

She took a deep, cleansing breath and moved on. "The reason we've got to do this. It's this man. His name is Moriarty." She shuddered as she said the name, and Matilda guessed that there was something personal in this. She didn't press further. "He's been playing with Sherlock. Taunting him, I guess. Being the one person who can match his intellect. It's really, really scary."

Matilda pursed her lips.

"And he's on our roof right now."

"W-what?" Matilda gasped suddenly, looking up at the ceiling as if it were transparent and she could see all the way to the roof.

"Yeah, Sherlock is talking to him. I don't really know why. But we're helping Sherlock fake his own death, because according to Mycroft -"

"Mycroft? Who's... _oh._ " Matilda had forgotten that Sherlock had mentioned her brother's name to her, but the occurrence had slipped her mind. "Sorry."

"Fine. It's fine. So we're helping Sherlock fake his death because he needs to do 'work'," Molly waggled her fingers in the air to serve as air-quotation marks. "But we really don't understand just what he's going to do." Molly shook her head. Then, she came back to life, stunned. Her eyes fixed on a point above Matilda's head, glazing in shock as she nodded.

"I almost forgot," she apologized to Matilda, fishing in the pocket of her lab coat. "You're the only minor in this operation. So you get a smaller earpiece. You'll receive orders through it and you can talk. Quietly, though. Give me your right ear and I'll put it in."

Matilda obligingly turned as Molly carefully fixed the earpiece into Matilda's ear, then stepped back. "You're going to be a distraction," Molly said calmly. "If something goes wrong and John or anyone else needs to be delayed, you'll have to do some acting."

 _Play the part. It's just like a play. You're a good enough actress, play the part._

 _Yes, all right. Could you maybe slow down? I'm six down here._

The conversation Matilda had had with Sherlock while walking through Scotland Yard echoed in her memories.

Suddenly, her earpiece crackled. "Is Junior on?" Sherlock's brother's voice crackled through.

"Matilda, he means you," Molly advised. "Come on, let's go up to my office. It's our stakeout point."

"I'm here," Matilda said quietly as she began to walk through the deserted hallways of the hospital with Molly. "What does _Junior_ stand for, out of curiosity?"

To her surprise, the PA from earlier replied. " _Consulting Detective Junior._ Your code name. Myc - I mean _Mr. Holmes_ thought it would be funny. And _Consulting Detective Senior_ thought so too, but he wasn't laughing at first."

"Oh," Matilda said seriously, jogging to catch up with Molly. She was a rather small woman, but she really seemed to make up for it in speed.

Molly's office, as Matilda saw it upon entering, could only be described as a cheerful splash of color in the bleak whiteness of the hospital: a description that fit its master herself. Pictures of a cat hung by a desk in a corner, as well as some newer images of the pathologist and a ginger-haired, shy-looking man who was grinning sheepishly at the camera. He wore an airline uniform, but his overlarge hat was perched on Molly's head as she perkily smiled at the camera.

"I've met someone," Molly told Matilda in a low voice, seeing Matilda looking at the pictures. "He isn't around London much, he has a job with a charter airline. Captain," she said, pride evident in her tone. "But we keep in contact a lot and I've made friends with the rest of the crew."

Matilda nodded.

"You can stay here until further instructions. Just don't wander _too_ close to the window."

"All right," she said and perched herself on a seat by Molly's desk.

Suddenly, the door flew open to admit a few men and women (all with earpieces) wheeling a stretcher. A crisp white cloth covered whatever was on it, but by the shape, she could understand just what it was - a willing participant who would never complain about his circumstances, in other words, a _cadaver._

"Ah, you've brought him," Molly said. "Remember the procedures if we can't use this fellow?"

"Absolutely," one of the men replied. "We've been told to stick around if we really need to use this fellow."

"Oh, thank _God_ they listened when I pointed out that discrepancy," one of the other assistants replied with a sigh, tucking a blue curl into the cap she was wearing.

"Right, just be prepared," Molly nodded. "Matilda here," she gestured to Matilda, who waved perkily at the assistants, "is helping us watch what's going on here."

They all nodded respectfully and dissolved into idle chatter.

Matilda boredly swung her legs, much like she had done in Sherlock's flat. She distantly wondered how Mrs. Hudson was doing. Had Sherlock managed to blow up anything particularly important? Was she still serving them tea while claiming that it was "just this once" that she would give it to them, as John had mentioned with a smile?

Suddenly, her earpiece crackled. The other people in the room grew silent. Obviously they'd heard the same thing and were awaiting information. The assistant with the blue hair nervously giggled after a few sections, to the general consternation of those around her. The assistant pinked and quieted immediately.

"We have a call, and the call is _Lazarus,_ " Mycroft called over the earpiece. "Three minutes, approximately, until John arrives."

Matilda whirled to Molly. "What does it mean?" she asked frantically over the assistants wheeling the stretcher towards the window noisily.

"We're _really_ faking Sherlock's death now," Molly said, a glimmer of worry in her eyes. "We're going to have to be on the alert or else all this will go to waste."

Matilda nodded solemnly. "I'll give you directions if needed," she heard Molly say as she turned to the window.

Minutes later, a cab pulled up, depositing a very confused John Watson. As the cab pulled away, John began to sprint towards the hospital, a phone clapped to his ear. He was squinting all around the area, not noticing the earpiece-wearing operatives standing around as if they were actual bystanders.

Suddenly, he looked upwards. He must have caught sight of _someone_ on the roof, Matilda guessed, for he stepped back and tried to compose himself. She desperately wanted to run outside to him, but she knew that she had to watch and wait.

For a minute they watched John talking on the phone. Then, earpieces crackled again.

An unfamiliar voice cursed through the earpiece.

" _Language._ There's a six-year-old on the scene," Mycroft admonished. "What's your problem?"

"We spilled the fake blood and the makeup for the head wound," the same person explained. "There's a spare, but it'll take us about two minutes to get to it without Watson noticing."

"Sherlock's call is almost finished," the PA said quietly. "Approximately forty-five seconds left. We'll need someone to distract Watson after Consulting Detective falls, until they can get the spare and switch out the body."

Molly jumped at the window. "I've got a distraction!" she yelled into her earpiece, and everyone jumped. "Sorry, sorry," she amended. "But you've nearly forgotten about Consulting Detective Junior. She's been with me up here the whole time. I'll come up with something." She eyed Matilda apprehensively.

"Go ahead," Mycroft said coolly. "Make sure it will work, or the lives for which we are working will be forfeit."

The earpiece clicked off.

Molly practically ran over to Matilda. "Sorry, but I've got to do this," she whispered apologetically. Yanking Matilda's cap off, she rumpled and messed up her hair before returning the cap sloppily. She then proceeded to forcefully remove Matilda's jacket, crumple it up rigorously, and give it back to her. As a final touch, she whispered, "Sorry!" again and proceeded to slap Matilda over the face. Hard.

"Ow!" Matilda exclaimed, rubbing her face.

"I could've given you a black eye," Molly said, rubbing her hand and glancing at her apologetically. "Now run downstairs! Make up a good story!" she yelled after Matilda.

Matilda was already out the door.

Pushing past the actors, she took up a place by the door. As she watched, John's face contorted into a mixture of terror, shock, fear, desperation and he screamed something into the bleak sky: _Sherlock._ After a moment, he started walking dazedly towards the spot where Sherlock fell. Matilda tried to go out, but she noticed a cyclist moving towards him.

She couldn't watch as the cyclist took him down.

 _Now,_ she told herself and sprinted out to John.

"Distract him for fifteen seconds," the PA instructed Matilda.

"Got it," she muttered as John noticed her.

"Matilda!" he called out, focus obviously changing. "God. Matilda, what... _what are you..._ why are you _here?!_ " he said in shock. "I...told your mum that I wouldn't be able to pick you up because things had happened!"

"I intercepted the text message," Mycroft quietly told Matilda through the earpiece. "It never got to Jennifer Andrea Honey. Your mum believes that you're with your Uncle John at 221B right now."

"I...I was in the museum," Matilda stuttered out, trying to make up a story. She'd never had this much trouble telling one before. "And...I was at the end of the group, and these men, they took me away and took me here. And they pretended I was a patient and smothered me in sheets or something. And when they took me out, they...they told me that if Uncle Sherlock didn't kill himself then they would kill me, and...other people, I guess, but they weren't specific. And then they...they just let me go right now, and _Uncle John I'm so scared,"_ Matilda cried out, sitting right on the ground.  
John crouched next to her. She hadn't been lying when she said that she was scared: her heart was pounding hard and fast and she felt strangely light-headed.

"I'm looking for Sherlock," he said distantly, voice sounding fogged and weighed down. "He...jumped and I don't know…"

"You can go now," Mycroft said quietly through the earpiece.

"C'mon, Uncle John, let's look for him," Matilda said, staggering to her feet and dragging her uncle along.

"No," he said.  
"What?"

"No. You might still be in danger, Matilda. I'll see you soon, I promise. For now…" he pulled out his phone, texted something out, and handed Matilda some money. "Take a cab to 221B. Tell the cabbie who you are. Your mum will come to pick you up." Looking absolutely devastated, he turned his weary blue eyes to where Matilda could just see a dark curly headed person lying on the ground, blood spread around and medical personnel swarming towards it.

Tearing her gaze away, Matilda sprinted over to a nearby street and did as John told her.

* * *

It was only when Matilda, after Mrs. Hudson received the news and broke down completely, was sobbing in the bathroom of 221B that she realized that the earpiece was still in.

It crackled, and a smooth, clear baritone voice sounded right into her ear, as if its owner was standing beside her.

"Matilda, I'm alive," Sherlock said tiredly. "I'm with Molly. I'm alive, and it's okay. There was a plan of Moriarty's to kill Mrs. Hudson, John, and Lestrade. Thanks to you and Molly here, that never happened."

"Sherlock," Matilda whispered hoarsely.

"Me." He paused. "I can't come back yet. I'm sorry, but there's more that I've got to do. And not enough time to do it all. I promise that when I come back, you'll be the first to know. I promise."

"Thank you, Uncle Sherlock."

"What for, Matilda?"  
"Everything," she whispered before burying her head in her hands and breaking into renewed sobs.

She'd lost one of her best friends and her world had turned upside down.

All in one fateful day.


	9. What Happened Afterwards: II

_Okay, I'm sorry._ _ **This**_ _is the final installment of this story. But I couldn't leave it in the bathroom of 221B, could I? I never could stay away...And so, enjoy.  
_ _Some triggers: mentions of prison, alcohol, and drugs._

* * *

 _ **WHAT HAPPENED AFTERWARDS?  
**_ **II: WHEN I SEE YOU AGAIN**

 _Two years later_

It has been two years, two _whole_ years with that great big ragged hole that can't be put back together that is, simply, Sherlock's suicide.

 **Matilda is eight years old now.**

She's gone to visit her old family many times since Sherlock jumped.

 **Her father was ultimately the one put in prison for fraud.** Matilda has spent hours sitting across from him. He is perpetually in need of a shave. His meticulous grooming of old has gone out the window completely. Matilda does not talk to him very much, letting her father see what has become of the daughter he abandoned. However, she's told him about Sherlock. And Uncle John. He looked like he would say a scathing remark about the genius who had been set up as a fake, but Matilda quickly taught him not to criticize her nearly-uncles in front of her.

 **Her brother was sent to a school, to try to give him the education that he desperately needed.** He is practically an adult now, but he knows next to nothing. If he were to be sent into the world, there could have been no way for him to become self-sufficient. (On the other hand, Matilda could have been sent into the world alone at the age of _four,_ but we shouldn't focus so much on the past: for the past is the past and it really cannot be changed.)

 **Her biological mother was released, eventually.** With her hopes and dreams scattered to the winds, she drowned her sorrows in alcohol and even tried drugs. An old friend of hers took her to rehab. The attempt was successful, and Matilda's mother is going back to school. She wants to be a journalist now. Matilda's mother has visited her former daughter many times. Matilda extends forgiveness to her, and her mother takes it. The former Mrs. Wormwood has disappeared, leaving behind a hopeful woman ready for a second chance. Matilda, with a shock, realized one day that she and her mother actually share the same hair color, a sort of burnt auburn. One day, blushing slightly, she told her mother that her hair was pretty and wondered aloud why she would ever cover it up with dye. To this Mrs. Wormwood replied, "I was insecure, and I tried to paint myself into the person I wanted to be."

Matilda and Mrs. Wormwood have, since then, found out that they have much in common: an enthusiasm for learning new things and an enthusiasm for French onion soup among them.

Mrs. Wormwood is also one of Miss Honey's close companions now.

As for the dance partner, nobody knows where he disappeared to, but people have their suspicions. He's not truly part of our story though. _Shall we move on?_

* * *

Matilda opens the front door, bag of roasted peanuts in one hand and a book she hasn't read in two years in the other. She sits on the porch swing, puts down her snacks and opens her book. She's grown taller over the past two years. Now, her foot can _just_ reach the ground from the swing. She toes the porch, setting the swing in motion. Before reading her book, she thinks about the friends she's met.

 **Poor Lestrade couldn't believe that Sherlock had thrown himself off Bart's.** From what Matilda had heard from Molly, he eventually accepted that Sherlock was dead and mourned him for a time before hauling himself into his work.

 **Donovan, as it turned out, had doubted in Sherlock from the start.** The doubts she'd held caused her to report him as a possible suspect in a case and brought scrutiny over Lestrade. Too many people now believed that she was the reason Sherlock jumped.

Miss Honey and Matilda didn't, though. Not really.

They never wanted to make that belief public, but whenever Donovan is being shoved around by the rest of the Force, Miss Honey and Matilda go to meet her at some restaurant in the area and comfort her. Donovan had sobbed to them on one occasion, "I can't live with the fact that I caused a man to commit suicide. It makes me want to _hurt myself,_ the feeling! I should have just kept my mouth shut, I don't even know why I thought he was a criminal, anyway. Sherlock Holmes was a _good_ man and I'm really sorry for doing what I did. I regret it so much! I broke apart what was good and wonderful with my own words...and I don't even know why I did it!"

Matilda knows.

Mycroft had explained to her that Moriarty had apparently planted seeds of suspicion in the Force, making Sherlock look like the criminal instead of the other way round.

Matilda had to admit that it was well-executed, but she felt sad that it had to be that way.

On the other hand, **Molly Hooper married the man Matilda had seen in the photos in Molly's office.** Martin was a good person, Matilda reflected. Perfect for Molly in so many ways: passionate about his job (aviation), slightly awkward, sweet. It turned out he was some distant relative of Sherlock's and was invited to the funeral. Matilda had seen the rest of the airline crew Molly had spoken about there and she had marveled at how they accepted both Martin and Molly as family.

Matilda and Miss Honey, along with John, attended Molly and Martin's wedding a year after Sherlock fell. It was an outdoor ceremony, under some birch trees, and Matilda could have sworn she heard strains of violin music from a distance and seen a shadowy figure gently applauding from behind a tree as the couple kissed.

The two often come to visit. Molly always gives Matilda a hug before leaving and whispers, " _Thank you for this,_ " in her ear. She still works as a pathologist at Bart's, and her husband still works as a pilot.

 **Molly and Martin are now expecting twin girls.**

 **John came to the old house at the edge of town to live with the next closest person he has to a sister: Miss Honey.** Miss Honey and Matilda helped him through the aftermath of Sherlock's apparent death. He became a general practitioner at a clinic in town and met a nurse there...named _Mary._

The first time John brought Mary to the house, Matilda recognized the former assassin upon sight and nodded respectfully. A glint of recognition entered Mary's pale eyes and she smiled kindly at her.

 **John and Mary are now engaged, and are to marry soon.**

 **As for Miss Honey, she is still the headmistress of the school.**

But what about Matilda?

How is Matilda, how has she grown?

Matilda is eight years old now. Taller, more inclined to smile. She's beginning to make more advanced deductions about people. She's learning to perceive through observation, not just _knowing._ She is nearing the end of her time in secondary school, still at the head of her class.

She decided to get a haircut and cut her hair to shoulder length. She rather likes it now, more polished, official. She might need glasses in the future, but she doesn't really know yet.

 **Matilda misses Sherlock.**

 **Everyone misses Sherlock.**

Matilda remembers what Sherlock told her on that day, when she was sobbing in the bathroom of 221B. **_I promise that when I come back, you'll be the first to know._**

 **She's told nobody else that Sherlock is alive.** **Not even Lavender** , when she pressed questions as to how John is now that Sherlock is... _dead._ **Not even Miss Honey** , her _Mum,_ and that has been hard. **Not even John,** and that has been the hardest. She made Mycroft and Molly promise that they would never disclose just how much of a role Matilda played in _Lazarus._ John would never forgive her if he knew that even his niece was involved in a huge spectacle to trick him. **From now until the hereafter, John Watson, Jennifer Honey, Martha Hudson, Greg Lestrade, and Sally Donovan will believe that Matilda was truly held in Bart's for the ransom price of Sherlock's life.**

 **It's a lie, and Matilda understands it. She tries to live with it.**

 **But she can't completely shake it off.**

Matilda sighs now, and tucks her hair behind her ear. She looks down at the cover of her book, feeling tears fill her eyes as she reads the title.

 ** _Notes Upon The Organization Of The Human Mind  
_** ** _Sherrinford Sigerson_**

 **It is Sherlock's book that she is reading, because she wants to make a Mind Palace of her very own.** Perhaps she will need it in the future.

She opens the book. Inside is a note.

When Sherlock and John left, Sherlock told Matilda she could keep the book...but not before scribbling a few lines into it, signing it, and slapping the book shut.

 ** _To Matilda Honey_**

 ** _Make sure to exercise that brilliant mind of yours.  
_** ** _Let me know when you've created a Mind Palace._**

 ** _Always, Sherlock Holmes_**

She smiles. Granted, it is a watery smile, what with the tears threatening to fall on her book. She looks away, and she wipes her eyes. Then she notices something by the gate.

She wipes her eyes again.

A tall, skinny figure stands at the gate, clutching at it with a hand.

Matilda decides to survey it closer.

She puts the book down. Gets up.

The figure pushes the gate open, slowly walks toward her. Each step is labored. She can see that the figure has been thrown around like a rag doll and is still recovering.

Matilda's smile grows.

"Uncle Sherlock." The name comes out strongly.

"Matilda."

She runs to meet him.

"Dear me, you've grown," Sherlock says.

Matilda seizes him by the waist and hugs him tight as she can, feeling like she was six years old all over again.

"I'm making my own Mind Palace," she murmured into his coat, smelling just like it did those two years ago, with the violin wood-and-gunpowder smell mixing with heady smoke.

"Just like me, I see," replies Sherlock.

Matilda lets go of her uncle, grabs his hand.

Each step is a struggle, but they do it together. At the door, Matilda stops him.

She opens the door, feeling joy rush through her like a wave.

" _Mum! John! Mary!_ " she yells. She knows they're having tea in the kitchen, and she hears a door slam open. "Come look who just came!"

Matilda jumps up and down with excitement, smiling gloriously and watching her uncle smile back next to her, many-colored eyes crinkling up at the corners, mouth stretching into a rare grin. Although he looks weary, weighed down, he smiles down at her with all the energy of two years before. He stands as ramrod straight as ever, his messy dark hair being played with by the wind. Slowly, his eyes come alive, flickering like fire.

 **"Come inside," she says joyfully, standing back and letting him through the door. "Come inside, and welcome!"**

* * *

 _ **And the curtains close on this story.**_

 _ **Thank you for taking this journey with me...** if you have any questions at all about any part of the plot or any of my personal headcanons concerning this fic, please feel free to PM me. _

**_Also, kudos to everyone who caught all the references._**

 _(Including the last piece of dialogue: it was a line from the play I was just in, and Maia of LittleReaderOfBooks should know about it!)_

 ** _Thank you to all who reviewed and gave me their honest opinions about this fic:_**

 _To the people who reviewed **at the very beginning** : __**Fangurrrling221B, JannaKalderash, LittleReaderOfBooks**_ _, and_ _ **all the Guest reviewers**_ _._

 _To all the people who reviewed **later on, during my debate/life-induced hiatus...you encouraged me to continue:**_ _ **Juliana Brandagamba, Starry is here don't freak out, Maia**_ _(really_ _ **LittleReaderOfBooks**_ _, but sometimes she's too lazy to login), and_ _ **all the Guests.**_

 ** _You've all been amazing and I couldn't ask for better fellow fanfiction readers/writers._**

 ** _To wherever you may be, I send you love from a Filipina fanfiction author in the United States…_**

 ** _Always,  
_ _Rielle_**


	10. BONUS SCENE: I'm Here

_Sorry, I lied! Because you're all absolutely fantastic, here's a_ _ **bonus scene.**_ _This will be the last one, I promise...And so, here we are._

* * *

 _ **WHAT HAPPENED AFTERWARDS?**_

 **III: I'M HERE**

 _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_

He stands.

He watches.

He waits.

He loves from afar.

Sherlock Holmes is a battered man, but he is not broken. Not yet, anyway. He has gone through so much in the two years since he satisfied Newton in his plunge to the pavement. Being beaten up in Serbia and then talking his way out of it was one. Another was nearly getting a phone call through to John from a dirty public phone in America before being chased by some members of a gang. Yet another was pretending to be drowned in a pool at an opulent hotel somewhere in Asia. (He's deleted exactly where, it's not that important anymore.)

But now he is about to go through the toughest thing he's faced since Moriarty.

He slowly peers out from behind the neatly trimmed hedge.

The Honey estate is as pristine and warm as the day he was first taken to it. The red bricks gleam in the afternoon sun, the rosebushes have burst into a riot of color he can't help but grudgingly admire.

From this standpoint he can just see the infamous shed where Jennifer Honey held her abusive aunt at gunpoint (even though the gun wasn't really loaded). He remembered that case. Sherlock had forgotten the pistol in his pocket. And the demure schoolteacher had _observed_ a discrepancy in his coat and acted accordingly.

 _All the more reason,_ he reflects with a shake of his head, _not to underestimate anyone._

As he watches the house, the front door opens. Quickly, he whisks his head back behind the hedge, reddening slightly at his close brush with discovery. Immediately, he feels embarrassed. To any and all passersby, he probably looks like some starstruck lovebird waiting for his lady. Taking up a more defensive stance, he peers around the hedge again.

To his satisfaction, Matilda is the person who has chosen to come to the porch.

Sherlock compares this new data on the sort-of niece he's befriended to old data he's stored away in his Mind Palace. Indeed, things have changed. She's much taller than the last time he saw her, solemnly standing at a grave with her family, tears silently falling over the corpse everyone believes to be his. She's also managed to cut her hair short. It looks much better this way: she doesn't look so much like an innocent little girl anymore.

His _niece_ (Sherlock still has a hard time referring to her as that since he's never really had much of a familial attachment to children before) carefully scans the exterior of the house. Sherlock feels a sense of pride spring up. She isn't just _seeing_ anymore, she is now _observing._

 _Uncle Sherlock, what's the difference between a person like me and a person like you?_

 _You don't really observe, Matilda. Rather, you just see it outright._

 _Really? I don't think of it that way._

 _What do you mean?_

 _Er...I just meant that...if I can "see it outright" as you've said, then how can we know that I'm not unconsciously deducing it in the process? I know I'm not using indirect reasoning, because that would mean that I'm always making temporary assumptions that are the complete opposite of what I want to prove. Like...maybe for example I would say that...er…"the Trunchbull is a kind person". I don't do that. So I'm probably using deductive reasoning. Like you, Uncle Sherlock. And that means I'm mentally going through a process of reasoning through statements and facts, and even prior knowledge. I'm taking clues from the subject's surroundings and using them to help create a description of what has happened to or with the subject. But the thing is, I might not be aware of the fact that I'm piecing together evidence to formulate a conclusion. What do you think?_

 _Probable. Would you like me to do what_ I _do and then see if you can explain how I did it?_

 _Like you did when Mum and I first came to you? Sure._

 _Alright. You're a geometry student. Simple one. Can you try to find how I got that?_

 _My definitions of the types of reasoning were in the geometric sense. Am I right?_

 _You've hit the nail on the head, actually. See? That's evidence, Matilda. So it is probable that you're unconsciously gathering evidence to corroborate your theories._

Sherlock felt rather proud of Matilda, a feeling he hadn't really experienced before. He hadn't had an _apprentice_ or _intern,_ but Matilda was damn close to one.

Matilda is on the porch swing. Sherlock can see she's brought out the book he wrote, the book he signed, scribbled a note in, and handed to her at the door. Just before he and John left.

He remembers her promise to her, said quietly in a back closet of Bart's into an earpiece, Molly Hooper standing guard above him as he did so. _You will be the first to know._

He wants to approach her and fulfill the promise. But first, he has to make sure nobody is watching. After all, a man coming back from the dead doesn't often happen where Matilda lives.

He looks around, recalling the bouncy friend Matilda let into the house. Thankfully, she wasn't around and Sherlock could begin making his way to his niece.

He quietly steps up to the gate. Just before he makes to push it open, his knee suddenly feels weak. It's been put through a lot of pressure from his beating-up session in Serbia, and he's not too surprised that his body had decided to protest in this way. Instead of entering the grounds of the Honey estate, he instead clings to the gate, clutching it tightly as if it were a lifeline.

Matilda opens the book in front of him. She stares at the note in the front cover for a few seconds before looking up at him and wiping at her eyes absentmindedly.

After taking a look at the gate again, she wipes her eyes once more and Sherlock knows he has been seen.

Matilda lays her book aside and gets up.

Sherlock takes this as a consent for him to enter and pushes open the gate. With each labored step he breathes heavily. He has been thrown around rather mercilessly in the two years since he'd left London. The beating in Serbia had truly pushed him over some boundary line.

"Uncle Sherlock," Matilda calls out from her post.

Sherlock stops to address her. "Matilda," he nods coolly.

Matilda jumps off the porch like a small child and dashes over to him.

Words fail Sherlock at how much his niece has grown, and he tries his best to express it. "Dear me, you've grown," he murmured, looking her up and down.

Matilda moves forward and gives him a classic Matilda hug, burying her face in his Belstaff like the day that sniper killed the Trunchbull.

Ever so softly, he can hear her mumble into his chest, "I'm making my own Mind Palace."

The sense of pride fills Sherlock's chest again. "Just like me, I see," he observes proudly.

Matilda grabs him by the hand, obviously leading him to the house.

Step by step, they make it to the front porch, Sherlock using every ounce of his will to put one foot in front of the other. He wishes he hadn't taken walking for granted so much, but he knows he can get better...all in good time.

At the door, Matilda stops him, opens the door, yells for her mum and _John_ and an unfamiliar name he hasn't heard: _Mary._

A door slams from inside and Sherlock knows that he might face hell from John and Jennifer, and there would be a newcomer to the cast of characters he's familiarized himself with, but he's home and that's all that counts, really.

Matilda turns to him again, and with a gentle smile, watches Sherlock's face pull into an expression of joy on its own accord: Sherlock can feel it and he does nothing to stop the joy spreading through his whole body. Because he's no machine. He's a (sort-of) uncle and he has a niece, and _friends._ What a word that is: _friends!_ It's a word that Sherlock will be more willing to think about.

Matilda looks at him, joy filling her face too. And she smiles, face glowing like it's lit by a candle, calling out to travelers like Sherlock, lost in the night for so long before being called _home._

" **Come inside...come inside, and welcome!"**

* * *

 _So that was Sherlock's perspective on the last chapter!_

 _Credit to Maia's and my good friend "Jeanne" aka Bubbles, to whom I attribute the final piece of dialogue. It's her line in the play I was just in, and I inadvertently memorized it after weeks of full cast rehearsals...ha._

 _Thanks again, everyone! Hope you enjoyed! I know I did… :)_

 _Look out for more stories from me!_


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